Page 15 of The Placeholder
Her resolve cracks into a reluctant smile. Moments later, a velvet dome of dark chocolate rises from a silver-rimmed plate, accompanied by a dish of vanilla bean ice cream that glistens like fresh snow. She leans in, inhales deeply, then takes a small forkful. Her eyes flutter shut, and a soft, involuntary “Oh my God” escapes her lips. “That should be illegal,” she breathes, sweetness and heat mingling in her voice.
I laugh, caught up in the pleasure of her pleasure, and in that instant, everything else falls away. But then I see the shift—the way her shoulders tighten, her fingers toy with the stem of her empty wine glass. Anxiety edges back into her gaze.
“Axel,” she says, voice gentler now, eyes downcast. “I need to tell you something.”
Alarm prickles along my spine. I set down my spoon and turn my full attention to her, the clink of cutlery around us fading into silence. “I’m listening.”
She inhales sharply, the fabric at her throat rising and falling. “I just got out of a long relationship. Seven years.”
My chest tightens, but I keep my expression measured. “I see.”
“It ended three months ago,” she continues, her gaze flickering up to mine and away. “And I… I’m not sure I’m ready for anything serious.”
I give her the space to continue, my heart, and even the drum in my ears.
“I’m attracted to you—obviously,” she says, her laugh soft and nervous. “But I don’t want to dive into something if I’m just rebounding.”
“What are you saying exactly?” I ask, voice calm, though every fiber of me wants to argue.
Her eyes lock onto mine, steady despite her uncertainty. “If we carry on, it needs to be casual—well, not casual in that sense,” she blurts, a fresh blush warming her cheeks. “More… exploratory. No expectations.”
I let her words settle before I speak. I could tell her that nothing about this night felt casual, but I respect her honesty too much to push. “May I ask what went wrong?” I say instead, gently.
She exhales a sigh that speaks of tired relief. “We wanted different things. I was ready for marriage and kids. He was happy just… coasting—no ring, no plans.” She twists her glass between her fingers. “Looking back, I realize comfort isn’t enough.”
The words leap from my chest before I can think: “Of course he wasn’t the one. Your husband is right in front of you.”
Her eyes widen, surprise and something like hopeflickering across her face. She whispers, “You can’t know that,” but there’s no anger—only wonder.
I slide my hand across the table, palm up. After a heartbeat, she places her hand in mine. Her skin is soft against my callused palm, warmth blossoming through my veins.
“Della,” I say, testing the name on my lips. “I respect your caution. I admire it. But I need you to understand—this can’t be just friendly for me.”
She tries to pull back, but I tighten my grip—sending reassurance, not pressure. “I’m not demanding a commitment. We move at your pace. But I won’t hide what I feel.”
“And what is that?” she whispers, voice barely louder than the soft piano music drifting overhead.
“Everything,” I answer, voice steady with conviction. “I want to be the one you call first—with your joy, your fears, your everyday. I want a real life with you. One that lasts.”
Silence stretches between us. Candlelight flickers in her eyes as she searches my face for any sign of guile. Finally, she exhales, a slow, trembling breath.
“I don’t understand how you can be so certain,” she admits. “When we’ve only just met.”
I think of split-second calls in the field, instinct that meant the difference between life and death. “Some truths you know the moment you feel them,” I say softly, gazing into her eyes. “Every instinct I have is telling me that you are it.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, small but genuine. “That’s either incredibly romantic or terrifying,” she says, finally.
I let the corner of my mouth lift slightly. “Maybe a bit of both.”
The check arrives, nestled in a leather folio embossed with gold. I slide my black card inside without looking at the total, my focus never leaving Della’s face. The candlelight catches in her eyes, making them shimmer like the ocean at dusk.
“Let me walk you to your car,” I say after signing the bill, standing and offering my hand.
Outside, the night air has cooled, carrying the scent of gardenia from the restaurant’s terrace planters. Della shivers slightly, and before she can protest, I’ve removed my jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric engulfs her slender frame, and something primal stirs in me at the sight of her wrapped in my clothing.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her fingers curling around the lapels. “For dinner. For understanding.”
We walk in comfortable silence through the parking lot, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. When we reach her car—a modest blue sedan—she turns to face me, my jacket still draped around her like armor.
