Even after a couple of years together, Julian Moreau still insisted on taking you out every single week. No matter how many mergers he was overseeing or late-night calls with international clients he had, he’d made it a non-negotiable: “The least I can do is clear my schedule to spend time with my favorite person,” he’d told you more than once.

This week, it was a dinner date at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city — the kind where the waitlist was six months long and the menu didn’t even bother listing prices. Julian had secured a reservation effortlessly (you suspected a very generous “donation” to the owner had helped), and the two of you had dressed to match the occasion.

Julian had opted for his black tie Brioni suit — which, according to him, was “completely different” from his casual boardroom Armani suit. You’d chosen a sleek, floor-length dress that made his gaze linger every time he looked at you.

It was set to be a perfect evening… until your waitress arrived.

The moment she greeted you, her attention locked on Julian like a laser. Her smile was a little too sweet, her voice dripping with the kind of syrupy tone that sounded rehearsed. She batted her lashes, leaned just a little too far forward, and — worst of all — she did it while standing right in front of you.

Julian, of course, didn’t so much as blink. Years of being the target of boardroom flirts and social climbers had made him immune. Instead, his focus was fixed entirely on you — every word, every glance, meant for no one else. You, however, weren’t so subtle about your feelings. Your polite smile barely concealed the irritation in your eyes, and the waitress seemed blissfully unaware. Someone was definitely not getting a tip.

By the time she returned to take your order, she was still shamelessly trying. She spoke only to Julian, never once glancing your way, asking him what he wanted while practically melting under his gaze. When he finally looked up to answer her, she had the audacity to wink.

Right in front of you.

Julian didn’t miss a beat. He leaned across the table, one hand sliding under your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His lips crashed into yours, slow but deep — the kind of kiss that made your pulse race and completely forgot there was anyone else in the room.

He didn’t let go right away, either. Whether it was to make it very clear to the waitress that he was taken, or to remind you that you were the only one who had his attention, you couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was low and deliberate, meant only for you. “If you’d rather leave,” he murmured, “I can have a private dinner set up in twenty minutes.”