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The waitress backs away so fast she nearly trips over her own feet.

“Thank you,” I breathe, pulse hammering in my throat.

“For what?”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did.” His grip tightens, and there’s something almost feral in his eyes. “No one disrespects what’s mine.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. What’s mine. Not ‘you when you’re with me’ or ‘my fake girlfriend for the cameras.’ Mine. Possessive and primal and so raw it makes my thighs clench under the table.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admit.

“What did you expect?”

“Honestly? An entitled pretty boy with good genetics and zero substance.” I meet his eyes. “I was wrong.”

“You were.” His smile is crooked, boyish. “I’m way prettier than you thought.”

I burst out laughing. “And modest. Don’t forget modest.”

“Modesty is overrated. Confidence, on the other hand—”

“Is incredibly attractive when it’s earned.”

“What have I earned?”

The question is loaded, dangerous territory we probably shouldn’t explore.

“You’ve earned the right to be confident about being decent,” I say finally. “Most guys would have let that waitress flirt because they liked the attention. You shut it down because it made me uncomfortable.”

“Of course I did.” His voice drops, intimate and rough. “You matter, Kat.”

The simple statement hits harder than any elaborate declaration.

Our food arrives and we dive in with enthusiasm that isn’t entirely feigned. The duck is perfection, my pasta a revelation that makes me close my eyes in bliss.

“Good?” Liam asks, amused.

“Incredible. Want to try?” I twirl pasta around my fork, holding it out.

He leans forward, lips closing around the fork in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly. His eyes stay locked on mine as he chews.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he murmurs.

I know he’s talking about the food. But my body responds like he’s talking about something else entirely.

We share bites throughout the meal, the intimate gesture feeling more real than anything else we’ve done tonight. Each time our fingers brush, each time he makes that soft sound of appreciation, I sink deeper into the fantasy that this means something.

By the time we finish dessert, I’m buzzed on wine and possibility and the way he’s been looking at me all night.

Like I’m beautiful.

Like I’m wanted.

Like I’m worth celebrating.

The drive home passes too quickly, soft music filling the comfortable silence. When we pull up to my building, my heart starts hammering.