“Well damn,” he says, looking between us. “Y’all finally decided to show up, I thought y’all said fuck my establishment.”
I chuckle.
Zaria blinks. “Is the restaurant… closed?”
“For you?” Knox gestures inside. “Yeah.”
Her eyes widen as we walk in. The entire dining room is candlelit. No other guests. Soft instrumental jazz humming through the speakers. The table in the center is set with fresh white linen and deep green napkins folded perfectly.
“This is… just for us?” she asks quietly.
I nod.
She turns toward me slowly. “You did this?”
“I wanted to get some alone time with you,” I say lightly. “Be intentional about connecting.”
Her hand tightens around mine.
Knox claps once. “Alright, y’all sit down before I get emotional in my own establishment.”
We sit. The first course arrives almost immediately.
Knox sits the beautifully plated dish in front of us.
“What we have tonight is a roasted beet & burrata salad. Enjoy.
Zaria closes her eyes after the first bite.
“I forgot what it feels like to enjoy something without bracing,” she murmurs.
I watch her carefully.
“You don’t have to brace tonight.”
She meets my gaze.
“Okay.”
We make small talk as Knox brings out the next dish.
“Your man told me you love a good lobster ravioli. What we have here is lobster ravioli in brown butter sage sauce,” he says as he pours a crisp white wine and lingers just long enough to make sure we’re eating before disappearing into the kitchen.
We talk. Not about hospital rooms. Not about what-ifs. About her program for unhoused trans youth. About expanding Maison Noire’s next product line. About travel. It feels strange and good to not let grief be the only thing binding us in this moment.
Knox is back with a perfect coffee-rubbed filet mignon. It’s perfectly paired over garlic mashed potatoes with roasted asparagus and a red wine reduction.
Zaria glances at me over her wine glass. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Yes,” I say simply. “I did.”
She studies me. “Why?”
“For us,” I answer.
Silence settles between us but not uncomfortably. More like she’s satisfied with my answer.
I clear my throat. “The gala’s in three weeks.”
