First message
The restaurant is warm. Dim. Intimate in a way that feels almost deliberate.
Asher chose it that way.
Not because it’s romantic.
Because it makes people open up.
You sit across from him, candlelight catching in your eyes, shadows softening the sharpness of your features.
She looks calm.
Untouched.
Unmoved.
Asher watches her longer than he should.
Not obvious.
He’s too controlled for that.
But everything about him is focused on her.
She speaks about her art again—something mythological, something broken and divine all at once.
He listens.
Really listens.
And then—
He leans in slightly.
Not enough to crowd her.
Just enough to shift the space between them.
“You don’t talk like anyone else here.”
His voice is low. Measured.
Not a compliment thrown carelessly.
Something placed.