Dinner is at a place that feels intentional without advertising it.
Low ceilings. Warm amber light that softens everything it touches. Dark wood worn smooth at the edges, the kind that comes from years of elbows and quiet conversations. No background music competing for attention—just the hum of voices, silverware, the occasional burst of laughter that never quite travels.
The host looks up the moment Derek leads me inside, his hand resting on my lower back as if it belongs there.
“Evening, Derek.”
“Evening, Sam,” he says. “Busy?”
“Just enough,” Sam replies. His eyes flick to me—quick, respectful. “Glad to have you back.”
Sam moves ahead of us with the kind of ease that comes from knowing exactly how much space he takes up.
Mid-forties, maybe. Crisp black jacket, sleeves tailored just right. His hair is silvering at the temples, the kind that looks deliberate even if it isn’t. He doesn’t hurry, but people part for him anyway—a subtle shift of bodies, chairs nudged back without being asked.
He doesn’t scan the room so much as register it. A glance here, a nod there. Someone at the bar starts to turn, curiosity sharpening, and Sam’s hand lifts just slightly—nothing overt, just enough. The moment passes. The whisper never finishes forming.
He glances back once, checking on us, eyes landing on me for half a second longer than necessary. Not invasive. Assessing. Protective in a way that feels practiced.
Then he’s moving again, already reaching the booth, already certain we’ll follow.
He leads us past the bar, where glass shelves glow softly, bottles arranged more for balance than display. A few heads turn. Nothing obvious. Just recognition that settles and moves on.
Our booth sits along the back wall, half-shielded by a low divider and a potted olive tree that looks real enough to fool me. Derek waits until I slide in before taking the opposite seat.
Menus appear almost immediately.
The server—Marisol, I gather from her name tag—has a calm, unhurried presence. Hair swept back neatly, smile warm but professional.
“Good to see you,” she says to Derek.
“And you,” he replies. “How’s your daughter?”
She brightens. “Final exams this week.”
“She’s got this,” he says. “She always does.”
Marisol turns to me. “First time with us?”
“Yes,” I say.
“We’ll be gentle,” she says, smiling, then looks back to Derek.
He doesn’t open the menu.
“Halibut for her,” he says. “Medium. And the short ribs for me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What if I were allergic to fish?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I’d apologize and pivot.”
“To?”
“The chicken,” he says. “Or the risotto if you prefer.”
“And what if I were allergic to all of that?”
“Then I’d stop ordering for you,” he says dryly, “and reconsider my life choices.”
