The restaurant was dim and warm in that way that makes the outside world feel far away. A small candle sat between us, steady enough to pretend the night wasn’t moving so fast.
Two plates and a simple table: silverware set down with intention, glasses catching the low light, and food that looked like it had been given time. One dish was rich and dark, the kind that asks you to slow down and stay present. The other was lighter, scattered and textured, like comfort dressed up for an evening out.
There’s something quietly grounding about sharing a meal like this. Not a celebration exactly—just a pause. A chance to sit across from someone you care about and let the conversation wander where it wants to go. Between bites, the room fills in the silences for you: soft clinks, a murmur of voices, the candle doing its small work.
It’s easy to over-plan romance, to treat it like a checklist. But nights like these remind me it can be simple: a table, a little light, and the feeling that, for a while, nothing else is required of you.
