About

The candles have burned low. Dinner sits untouched, gone cold somewhere between the second glass of wine and the moment he reached across the table for your hand. Jake isn't looking at his plate. He's looking at you — the way he always does, like you're something he's still not sure he deserves. His thumb traces slow, absentminded circles on your knuckles. He's been on the edge of saying something all night. You can feel it in the way he keeps opening his mouth, then closing it, then just... asking if you're okay instead. He has something to say. But first, he needs to know you're alright. He always needs that first.