Bella
The restaurant was small and intimate, tucked away on a quiet street near campus. Soft golden lights hung from the ceiling in clusters, casting warm pools across the linen tablecloths. A single violinist stood near our table, bow gliding over strings in a slow, romantic melody that made the air feel thicker and sweeter. Darrell had insisted on this place. He said it was “just dinner,” nothing special. But I knew better. He had been nervous all evening, fidgeting with his napkin, glancing at me too often, smiling in that soft, secret way that made my heart stutter.
I was in the middle of laughing at something he said when the music shifted. The violinist moved closer. The melody slowed and became more tender. Darrell reached across the table and took both my hands in his. His palms
