Chapter 4: The Table for Two

The restaurant was small. Easy to miss.

Wedged between a sleepy florist and a record shop with sun-bleached posters taped in the window, it had no signs, no menus out front. Just a dark wooden door and a brass plate screwed into it. Norae, etched in clean, serif letters.

No one stood outside. No one ushered people in. It didn't need to.

Lena liked places like that. Quiet. Dim. Forgotten by search engines and people who needed reservations. Somewhere a person could sit and disappear for a while.

She arrived early.

She always did.

Chose the table in the back corner, her back to the wall, eyes on the door. A habit, not conscious, but one that never faded. The place was warm inside—golden light, dark wood, a faint scent of rosemary and garlic that didn't try too hard.

The waitress just gave her a nod. No words. No menu. She knew Lena. Knew her drink. Brought a glass of red—dry and earthy—and left without small talk.

By the time Eliot walked in, Lena was halfway through it.

He paused just past the threshold, blinking like he'd stepped into a dream. Hair slightly damp from the rain. Sweater over a collared shirt. Casual, but not too. He looked unsure, like he'd tried on three outfits and wasn't convinced by any of them.

Then he saw her.

And smiled—small and real. A little crooked.

"Hey," he said, walking over. "I hope I'm not—"

"You're on time," she said, before he could finish.

He slid into the chair across from her, exhaling a quiet breath. "This place... I've walked by here a dozen times and never noticed it."

"That's kind of the point."

He raised an eyebrow. "Sounds poetic."

"It's just true."

The waiter came, refilled her glass, handed Eliot a menu. He stared at it like it was in another language.

"I can pick for you," Lena said.

"Please do."

She ordered for both of them. Eliot didn't seem intimidated—just quietly grateful.

He sipped his wine, tried not to make a face. Failed.

"You hate it," she said, smirking.

"It tastes like... leaves."

"Good. Means it's real."

Dinner came soon after—fresh pasta with soft herbs, melted cheese, no showy sauces. Eliot took one bite, chewed, and blinked like something had surprised him.

"Oh," he said, and then again: "Wow."

She allowed herself a quiet smile. "Told you."

He kept eating, a little faster than before, but not sloppy. His shoulders relaxed bit by bit, like he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop but couldn't quite remember why.

"Have you... come here often?" he asked eventually.

"Sometimes."

"When you need to be alone?"

She shook her head. "When I need to be around people, without... being with them."

He took a second to process that. Then nodded.

"I think I get that," he said. "Most places feel like they're too loud. Like they're trying to sell you something."

"Most people are," Lena said.

That made him pause.

Then she added, without looking up: "Trying to sell some version of themselves."

Eliot was quiet for a beat. Then: "You always say things like that?"

"Not on purpose."

"I like it."

She looked up.

He wasn't smiling.

Just watching her.

Carefully.

Then he said, "You ever write things down?"

That surprised her. "What do you mean?"

"Like... I do. Not seriously. Just notes. Thoughts. Bits of things that don't go anywhere."

"You write?"

He shrugged. "Sort of. I don't call it that. I wouldn't show anyone."

"Good," she said. "That means it's honest."

He flushed lightly but didn't look away.

The restaurant had filled a little, voices low and clinking cutlery filling the air. But their table stayed quiet. They didn't need to talk much. There was something else going on—something under the surface Lena didn't have words for yet.

After a while, he asked, "Why did you say yes?"

She blinked. "To dinner?"

He nodded.

She set her glass down. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "You seem like someone who doesn't let people in easily."

She studied him. "Maybe I just wanted to know what kind of person you were outside the office."

He smiled, eyes down. "That sounds like a trick answer."

"It's not."

There was silence again. This time longer. But still not uncomfortable.

Lena felt it then—the absence of discomfort. No pressure. No performance. Just Eliot, across from her, trying to figure out how not to mess it up.

And still managing to be real.

Most men tried too hard. Touched her hand. Leaned in. Tried to impress or impress upon. Not him. He sat still. Listened. Let her speak when she wanted. Met her quiet with quiet.

That did something to her she hadn't expected.

They left together.

The rain had picked up just enough to leave a sheen on the pavement, catching the yellow from the streetlights. Eliot held the door open. She stepped out, not saying anything. He followed beside her like he wasn't quite sure if he was allowed to yet.

"I'll walk you to the station," he offered.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

So she let him.

They didn't talk. Not really. He pointed things out—a mural half-washed away, a tree growing sideways between two buildings, a neon sign stuttering its last breath. Nothing important. But she listened anyway.

It was enough.

By the time they reached the station, she stopped just shy of the steps.

Eliot stood there with her, shifting slightly. "This was nice."

"It was," she said.

"I'd... like to do it again."

She looked at him. Really looked.

Rain in his hair. Collar slightly crooked. Hands in his coat pockets, like he didn't trust them to behave. Not trying to charm her. Not trying to win.

Just there.

Trying.

"You should go before the trains slow down," she said.

He nodded. "Right. Yeah."

But he didn't move.

She stepped closer.

Not touching. Just close enough that the air changed. The space between them thinned.

"If you ever stop seeing things the way you do," she said softly, "I'll know."

He furrowed his brow, confused. "Know what?"

"That it's not you anymore."

Before he could say anything else, she turned and left—quick, quiet, her heels tapping out a steady beat on the wet concrete.

By the time he looked over his shoulder, she was gone.

Like she'd been swallowed by the rain.