Bella

The restaurant was small and intimate, tucked away on a quiet street near campus. Soft golden lights hung from the ceiling in clusters, casting warm pools across the linen tablecloths. A single violinist stood near our table, bow gliding over strings in a slow, romantic melody that made the air feel thicker and sweeter. Darrell had insisted on this place. He said it was “just dinner,” nothing special. But I knew better. He had been nervous all evening, fidgeting with his napkin, glancing at me too often, smiling in that soft, secret way that made my heart stutter.

I was in the middle of laughing at something he said...