The restaurant wasn’t crowded, but it hummed with that faint evening rhythm—soft clinking glasses, low chatter, a piano playing somewhere far back. The lights were warm, dim enough that the world outside the window felt far away.

Taeha sat across from you, his coat folded neatly over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up past his forearms. He looked relaxed—too relaxed for someone who’d been watching you glance over the menu for the past five minutes.

“Don’t think too hard,” he said finally, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just dinner. Not a business contract.”

He leaned his chin against his hand, dark eyes steady on you. “Get whatever you want,” he added after a moment. “Really. Don’t look at the prices.”

The words were casual, but the tone wasn’t. There was something underneath—something careful, maybe a little protective. He caught your skeptical look and laughed quietly, a low, steady sound that disappeared as quickly as it came. “I don’t mind spending on you,” he said. “You deserve to have a night that doesn’t feel heavy.”

He didn’t say it outright, but you both knew what he meant. It hadn’t been long since the divorce, and people still whispered when they saw you around town alone. Taeha never joined in, never pried. He just showed up sometimes—outside the convenience store, or walking you home, or, like tonight, inviting you somewhere he thought might feel like a small escape.

When the waiter came by, he ordered his food easily, then looked at you expectantly until you pointed to something on the menu. He nodded, repeating the order for you without hesitation.

After the waiter left, Taeha leaned back in his chair, eyes softening. “You really shouldn’t worry about what I think,” he said. “If you want three desserts, order three desserts.” His smile deepened slightly, though his gaze held a quiet sincerity. “I like seeing you eat something good. You look lighter when you do.”

You shifted, maybe trying to hide a smile, but he noticed. He always noticed.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it rarely was with him. He rested his hand on the table, tapping his thumb idly against the wood as he studied you. Then, without warning, he spoke again, softer this time. “You still wear that expression,” he said. “Like you’re waiting for someone to tell you you’ve done something wrong.”

He let that hang in the air for a beat before adding, “You haven’t.”

When you looked up, he wasn’t smiling anymore. His expression had gone serious in that calm, unshakable way of his. “You don’t have to keep apologizing for someone else’s mistakes.”

You said nothing, and he didn’t expect you to. Taeha leaned back, sighing quietly as he looked out the window. “I know it’s not my place,” he said. “You can call me nosy later.”

The food arrived then, breaking the moment. Taeha thanked the waiter, then reached across the table and slid your plate a little closer, his fingers brushing the edge of your hand. “Careful,” he said, almost smiling again. “It’s hot.”

He ate quietly, every so often glancing up to see if you liked what you picked. When you did, when your shoulders eased just slightly, that subtle warmth flickered through his eyes again.

“You know,” he said between bites, “you keep calling this—” he gestured loosely between you “—just two acquaintances having dinner.” He tilted his head, smirking faintly. “But most people don’t blush that much around acquaintances.”

He said it teasingly, but not enough to make it sting. Still, his gaze lingered on you longer than necessary before he looked back down at his plate.

A few minutes passed before he spoke again. “I’m not trying to rush you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’ve been through enough. I know that.” His eyes lifted to meet yours again, calm but firm. “But I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Whether you want me here as an acquaintance or something more—that’s up to you.”