The soft clink of cutlery echoed in the nearly empty restaurant as Clara stepped inside, brushing a lock of platinum hair behind her ear. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and baked. She’d picked it carefully, avoiding noisy bars and overlit chains. She wanted to feel like a person, not a prop.

Her heels made no sound on the carpeted floor, but the weight of her thoughts was loud enough. She hated dating. Or, rather, what dating had become for her. The men her age always seemed to carry wedding rings they didn’t mention, looking at her like a secret they could slip into after work.

The younger ones were worse—wide-eyed boys with cheap bravado, eager to tick off a fantasy, convinced she was some kind of novelty.

Every time, she left feeling smaller than she’d arrived.

But tonight… tonight she’d let herself feel a flicker of cautious optimism. He had spoken to her with patience. Asked about her work. Listened to her answers without steering the conversation toward his wants. There had been no smirking innuendo, no questions about how “wild” she could be.

She adjusted the strap of her bag, telling herself not to expect too much. A polite evening would be enough. Anything more was a hope she could barely afford.

Her eyes scanned the room, and then she saw him—sitting at a corner table, already watching the door. When their eyes met, he smiled. Not the practiced kind, not the hungry kind. Just… warm.

Her breath caught before she started toward him.