"You told me you were going to build something extraordinary," Femi said, his eyes distant with memory. "That you didn't care if nobody believed in you, because you believed in yourself. And I remember thinking..." He paused, swirled hiswine. "I remember thinking that I'd never met anyone so certain of who they were."
"I wasn't certain.” The words came out rough, honest. “I was terrified."
"You hid it well."
"I hid everything well. It was the only way to survive."
He nodded slowly, his expression understanding. "I think I always knew, actually. I just didn't understand what it meant." He reached across the table. His fingers brushed mine, light and questioning. "I should have been better, Issy. I should have listened more instead of trying to hold on so tight."
I didn't pull away. I should have. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to pull away, to put distance between us, to remember why we'd broken up in the first place.
But his hand was warm, and the wine was good, and somewhere between the burrata and the lamb, I'd forgotten why I was supposed to be keeping my distance.
"What would you have done differently?" I asked. "If you could go back. If you knew then what you know now."
"Everything." He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "Or perhaps just one thing. The most important thing.” He took a breath. “I wouldn't have proposed. Not then. Not like that. Not in a way that felt like I was trapping you.”
The memory rose up between us, sharp and painful. Him on one knee with a velvet box. The way his face had crumpled when I said no.
“I loved you, Isabelle.” His voice dropped lower, more intense. “I still do, if I'm being honest. But I never wanted to own you. I never wanted to make you small or hold you back or keep you in a box."
He squeezed my hand gently. “I just... I was young and stupid and terrified of losing you. I thought if I could just make it official, make you promise, then you couldn't leave. Then Icould keep you." He smiled, but it was sad and self-aware. "But that's not how love works, is it? You can't keep people by forcing promises. You can only love them and trust them and hope they choose to stay."
"But I did leave," I said quietly.
"You did." He nodded, his eyes on me were sad and tinged with old hurt. "I spent eight years trying to understand why. Trying to become someone who wouldn't make the same mistakes."
"And have you?" My voice came out softer than I intended. "Become that person?"
"I don't know. But I'd very much like the chance to find out. To show you that I've changed. That I can be what you need this time."
Dessert arrived before I could respond. The chocolate mousse was so rich and dark it was almost obscene. I took a bite and there it was again, unbidden and unstoppable—that involuntary hum of pleasure that Femi had been teasing me about.
"There it is," Femi said softly, his eyes warm.
"Shut up."
"Make me." The challenge hung in the air between us, loaded with meaning, with memory and possibilities.
I threw my napkin at him instead of answering. He caught it easily, laughing.
This was the Femi I remembered. The one who could make me laugh when I wanted to cry, who pushed and teased and never let me take myself too seriously. I'd missed him. God, I'd missed him so much it hurt.
We finished dessert. He paid without looking at the bill. Outside, the night had turned cool, London in late spring, the air still carrying the memory of afternoon rain.
His car was waiting at the curb—that sleek black sedan with the driver who'd been patient all evening. Mine was waiting too, parked just behind it. My driver followed us earlier without me having to ask, an escape route for times like these.
"I had a wonderful evening," I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being. The words felt inadequate for what I was feeling, but they were all I had.
"So did I." He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne and feel his warmth. "I-sa-belle..."
He kissed me.
Not like the way he did in New York. Not desperate and hungry and out of control. This was slow. Intentional. Deliberate.
His hand came up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his, and he kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth.
I kissed him back. For a moment. Just a moment. Let myself sink into the feeling of his mouth on mine, the taste of chocolate and wine and him. Let myself remember what it felt like to be held by someone who knew how to hold me.
