“Here you go,” the server interrupts my thoughts, sliding a steaming pizza onto the table.
It’s glorious—charred crust, rich tomato sauce, glistening with mozzarella and ribbons of fresh basil.
“Oh my God, that smells divine,” I breathe, practically wiggling in my seat.
My stomach makes a second appearance, growling like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.
Theo chuckles.
“You’re fucking adorable,” he murmurs, reaching for the pie.“Lemme get a slice for you, Angel.It’s hot.”
There it is again.Angel.
My pulse speeds up, and my heart starts going—bum bum, bum bum—double time.
He hasn’t stopped calling me that, and I haven’t told him to.
I should.I probably should.
But I don’t.
He serves me a slice, careful like it’s a ceremony.Like he’s offering more than food.
A silent apology in the form of carbs and cheese.
I let him.
The wine he ordered shows up in two short glasses—not the fancy stemmed kind, just thick old tumblers that remind me of holidays with my dad when he’d let me sip from his cup and pretend I was a grown-up.
It’s bold.Full-bodied.Dry enough to make me pause.
“Good?”he asks.
I nod.
“Yeah, it’s good.”
“Sorry I didn’t ask.It’s one of my favorites, and I wanted to share it with you,” he confesses.
“I like wine.And I happen to prefer my red wine dry and my white wine sweet.”
His mouth curves, slow and knowing.
“Noted.”
We eat in a lull of semi-civil silence, the kind that feels less like a pause and more like a truce.
My anger’s still there, simmering somewhere beneath my skin, but it’s cooling.
Mutating.
Because if I’m honest?
I don’t think he meant to hurt me.
Theo is not subtle.He’s not smooth.He’s not a manipulator.
If anything, he’s a walking contradiction—blunt and intense, but weirdly tender when he thinks I’m not looking.
