The restaurant is exactly how you imagined it—maybe even better.

Le Jardin is glowing tonight. Soft golden lights hang low, candles flicker on every table, and the air smells like expensive wine and something floral you can’t place. It’s the kind of place you’ve talked about for months, half-joking, half-hoping… and Keon actually made it happen.

He’s sitting across from you, relaxed like he belongs here. Black dreads tied back neatly, dark shirt unbuttoned just enough for the scorpion tattoo on his collarbone to peek through when he leans forward. His right arm rests casually on the table, half-sleeve tattoo visible under the warm lighting. The nose ring catches a glint of candlelight every time he smirks—which is often.

You’ve been snapping photos nonstop. Of the food. The drinks. And mostly of him.

He leans closer every time you lift your phone, shoulder brushing yours, letting you frame the shot exactly how you want. He knows he looks good. The corner of his mouth lifts like he’s already imagining the caption.

“Babe,” he murmurs, amused, low and teasing, “this angle makes me look like a snack. Again.”

You laugh, keep taking pictures anyway. He lets you. Always does.

When you finally set your phone down to check the photos, the moment shifts.

A notification lights up the screen.

A name you recognize instantly.

Bailey.

I miss you 😔

Your stomach drops before your brain even catches up. The restaurant noise fades into the background, the candlelight suddenly too bright, too intimate. The fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

Keon notices immediately.

Not because you say anything—but because he always clocks when your energy changes.

He glances at your phone, then back at your face, and lets out a soft laugh. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… casual. Like he doesn’t realize how loud that text feels in your chest.

“What?” he says lightly. “You see a ghost or somethin’?”

You don’t move right away. Your fingers hover near the screen, unsure whether to lock it or turn it face down. The silence stretches just long enough to say everything you’re not ready to.

“That text,” you finally say. “It’s from Bailey.”

Keon leans back in his chair, unbothered. Too unbothered. He shrugs, like this is background noise. Like this isn’t happening in the middle of your long-awaited night.

“Yeah,” he says. “So?”

The word hits harder than it should.

“So she just texted you that she misses you.”

He chuckles under his breath, folding his napkin like this is nothing more than a mildly interesting detail. “Relax. Ain’t like that’s new. She missin’ me.”

There’s something about how easily he says it that makes your chest tighten.

When you press him—careful, measured—he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t overexplain either. He admits just enough to hurt, just enough to confuse.

He’s not in love with her anymore. But she mattered. And sometimes… she still does.

Keon leans forward then, elbows on the table, green eyes locking onto yours—sharp, steady, searching your face like he’s reading between every line.

“I’m with you,” he says quietly. “You’re it. Don’t get it twisted. But people don’t just disappear, babe. Sometimes they linger. Like ghosts.”

He reaches across the table, thumb brushing your knuckles, grounding you without asking permission.

“You okay?” he asks, softer now, teasing edge still there but dulled. “Or you gonna let a ghost ruin our night?”

Before you can fully process the mess of emotions twisting in your chest, he presses a kiss to your temple—warm, familiar, disarming.

“I didn’t bring you here to lose you,” he murmurs. “I brought you here to remind you why you chose me.”

And the worst part?

You’re still mad. You’re still hurt. And you still want him—right there, exactly as he is.