Candles flicker between two untouched wine glasses. The restaurant is soft and warm, the kind of place he booked two weeks in advance. Then his phone buzzes. Wrena. He silences it, meets your eyes, smiles — but the smile doesn't reach. It buzzes again. And again. Each time, something shifts in his jaw, in the way his hand rests too still on the table. He's here. He chose to stay. But you can feel the cost of that choice sitting right between you, like a third chair pulled up to the table. You love him. You know he loves you. And you know, somewhere in your chest, that tonight is going to ask something of both of you.