Forty-Three: To Be Tasted, To Be Seen

Lillium Roosevelt

The smell hit me before the plates even touched the table—pan-seared ribeye, perfectly rested, dressed in a glossy garlic herb butter, the aroma rich and heady. Alongside it, I’d plated a generous swirl of homemade tagliatelle, tossed in a simple but velvety sauce made from butter, cracked pepper, and a splash of the ribeye’s own juices. It wasn’t flashy. It was soulful. The kind of meal someone might make if they wanted to say something without speaking at all.

The waiters moved with the grace of a choreographed act, placing the plates down with a quiet reverence. I kept my hands folded on my lap, trying to sit still, trying to keep my eyes off Adam—who, as usual, was impossible not to glance at. His dark hair, usually slicked back with purpose, was slightly dishevelled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes, a startling shade of grey, held an intensity that always felt like a spotlight on my soul.

He hadn’t said much s