Three days later, and Seamus and I still haven't had the conversation he suggested. His schedule is suddenly packed with emergency meetings, late calls, and a business dinner that kept him out until after midnight.
We move through our morning routines with a new awareness of each other, small glances and momentary touches that acknowledge the shift between us without directly addressing it.
I notice everything now. The rhythm of his footsteps. The way he drums his fingers against his mug when something worries him. The quiet softening when he catches me looking.
My sketchbook is filled with fragments of him captured in quick, private studies—his hands (always precise in their movements), his profile as he reads, the rare moment when his guard drops completely and I glimpse the person beneath the polished exterior.
These sketches aren’t for anyone else. They’re how I make sense of what I don’t know how to say.
Luna would tell me I'm falling into exactly the trap she warned about. That I'm confusing circumstance with connection and mistaking proximity for compatibility.
Perhaps she'd be right.
Yet the kiss we shared had nothing to do with our contract or public perception; it existed in private space, motivated by mutual choice rather than external expectation.
Tonight, we're scheduled for what ERS calls a "cozy date night". It's a dinner at Angelo's, a family-owned Italian restaurant known for its intimate atmosphere and generations-old recipes.
The reservation is for seven o'clock, to take advantage of prime visibility.
Marissa’s email suggested “affectionate but tasteful interaction.” Translation: hold hands. Share dessert. Look believable.
I wonder if the real connection forming between us will be visible beneath the choreographed intimacy.
More importantly, I wonder if tonight will be enough to finally bring up the conversation we've been circling since the moment everything changed. Maybe after dinner, when we are out of the spotlight.
Angelo’s glows against the darkening sky, red-checked curtains and weathered brick promising romance on demand.
Seamus holds the door for me as we enter, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. It's a gesture that once felt calculated but now carries a different quality of connection.
The owner greets us personally, his accent thick as he leads us to a corner table partially screened by a trellis covered in artificial grape vines and fairy lights.
It's perfect for ERS's purposes—private enough for intimate conversation but visible enough to be noticed by other diners.
"You look beautiful," Seamus says after we're seated.
He seems different tonight. He's still controlled, still precise in his movements, but with a subtle relaxation in his posture, a warmth in his gaze that hasn't been filtered through strategic consideration.
I'm wearing a simple emerald dress that brings out the flecks in my eyes, my hair loose around my shoulders instead of in its usual practical knot.
His appreciation seems genuine rather than obligatory, another small shift in the evolving dynamic between us.
The meal unfolds with unexpected ease, our conversation flowing naturally from my current illustration project to his early interest in architecture before business school, from childhood memories to shared observations about the city we both love despite our different perspectives on its development.
We order family-style, sharing dishes passed between us with growing comfort in each other's space.
When Seamus reaches across the table to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture contains none of the calculated performance that characterized our early public appearances. His fingers linger against my cheek for a moment, and I lean slightly into the contact, no longer certain where the line between performance and genuine connection lies.
As our dessert arrives (tiramisu to share, with two forks as Marissa suggested) Seamus's phone buzzes with an incoming call.
He glances at the screen and frowns slightly, the first disruption to the warmth of the evening.
"I need to take this," he says, genuine regret in his tone. "It's Malcolm."
I nod understanding as he steps outside for privacy, watching through the window as his posture shifts back into corporate mode, shoulders squaring and expression becoming unreadable as he listens to whatever his COO is saying.
When Seamus returns to the table, something has shifted in his demeanor—a tension around his eyes, a slight rigidity in his movements that wasn't there before. He offers a tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, apologizing for the interruption with practiced politeness.
"Business never respects dinner hours," I say lightly, trying to recapture the ease of our earlier conversation.
