Page 133 of Every Shattered Note
My breath stumbles.He shouldn’t say things like that—not in that voice, not while looking at me like I’m something worth keeping.
The waiter appears, polite and quiet, all linen and practiced timing.I don’t even read the menu.Dexter orders for both of us—seared scallops, truffle risotto, a vintage Riesling for me.He says it with the same confidence he uses when he sings, and I swear I could drown in the sound.
When the waiter leaves, the jazz trio slows.The pianist drifts into “At Last.”It’s not subtle.It’s perfectly, painfully him.
“You planned this,” I accuse, failing to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
“Maybe,” he says, raising his glass of water.“To new beginnings.”
I hesitate, then lift mine.
“To finally getting our chance,” I whisper, clinking glass to glass.
The bubbles sting my tongue.He doesn’t look away.
There’s a pull in his gaze—something molten and magnetic.His eyes linger on me like he’s memorizing every reaction, every shallow breath, every shift in my expression.It’s not just attraction—it’s intent.It coils low, unhurried and certain, threading through me until the rest of the room dissolves into blur and hush.
And for a breath, everything around us disappears.There’s just him.Me.The space between us thinning until even the music seems to wait for permission to move again.
Conversation flows easily—like we’ve been doing this for years instead of starting over.We talk about music, the madness of wedding season, how Jules left him a voicemail gushing with enthusiasm and dramatics after the legal team finally untangled the vow-renewal-turned-shotgun-wedding mess.He teases me for overplanning.I tease him for pretending he doesn’t care as much as he obviously does.
We laugh.
We share bites of food and little stories from our past.At some point, the trio shifts into something softer—a song from the 1970s, half-forgotten and bittersweet.The melody winds through the air like nostalgia wearing silk.
Dexter leans back in his chair, eyes still on me.“Dance with me.”
I blink.“Here?”
He stands, extending his hand.“Here.”
It’s absurd.People glance over, some smiling, some pretending not to watch.The narrow space between tables isn’t meant for dancing, but he doesn’t seem to care.When his fingers brush mine, the noise around us dulls to a hum.
He draws me close, one hand at my waist, the other folding around my fingers.His touch isn’t tentative—it’s grounding.We move slowly, barely swaying, caught in the rhythm between music and heartbeat.His cheek grazes mine, and the world feels aligned again.
“This song,” I whisper.“It’s?—”
“Us,” he finishes, voice low enough to melt the distance.
I close my eyes.“Feels like it.”
We don’t talk for a while.The air between us hums with everything we’re not saying.The notes rise and fall, circling back like a confession we’re both afraid to name.When I finally meet his gaze, it’s molten and unguarded—his expression equal parts devotion and danger.
He leans in, his breath brushing my ear.“You know,” he murmurs, “Rosie’s a little jealous of you.”
I pull back just enough to see his face.“Rosie?”
“My guitar,” he says, smiling.“She doesn’t like anyone who makes me sing without strings.”
My laugh catches, halfway between disbelief and something that hurts in a good way.“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”His tone softens.“But I’m yours, if you’ll take me.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
When the song ends, gentle applause ripples through the restaurant—private, indulgent, almost amused.Dexter bows dramatically, and I laugh against his shoulder, feeling something I haven’t felt in years: lightness.
Outside, Seattle smells like rain again.The night feels alive, charged, threaded with possibility.He walks me to the car, our hands brushing but not quite touching.There’s patience in him tonight—the kind that speaks louder than any confession could.
