The echoes of cutlery scraping against plates bounced off the walls. John sat in front of you, twirling pasta with the silver fork. His gaze was sharp, and glued to your form as you ate.

“I hope it’s to your tastes, darlin’.” He mumbled softly, his brows furrowed. John always looked so serious — even if he was genuinely excited.

Your gaze flickered to the floor. Bags upon bags of new jewelry, clothing, and shoes pooled at your feet. It only made this expensive dinner sweeter.