Isabelle
Femi took me to a restaurant I'd never heard of.
"Secret restaurant?" I raised an eyebrow as we stepped inside. "Very mysterious of you."
"I do try." His voice carried that slight tease, that warmth that made everything sound like a private joke between us.
The space opened up into something unexpected. Exposed stone walls, candlelight, tables spaced far enough apart that you could forget anyone else existed. It smelled incredible inside. Rosemary and thyme. Something slow-roasting that made my mouth water. Bread fresh from the oven, still steaming.
"Mr. Davies." A ma?tre d' appeared from nowhere, all warm smiles and European efficiency. "Your usual table is ready. And Miss..." She glanced at me, waiting.
"Dubois," Femi supplied smoothly, his hand finding the small of my back. "She's with me."
The ma?tre d's smile widened. "Of course. Right this way, please."
We followed her through the restaurant, acutely aware of Femi's hand on my back, burning through the fabric of my dress.
We arrived at a corner booth, the best table in the house, naturally. Tucked away but with a perfect view of the entire restaurant. Private but not hidden.
I tried not to be impressed and failed spectacularly. "You have a usual table at a restaurant with no sign."
"I've been coming here for three years." He pulled out my chair, waiting with old-fashioned courtesy until I sat before taking his own seat across from me.
"Old habits. The owner's a mate from university.
He doesn't advertise because he doesn't need to.
Word of mouth keeps this place booked solid six months out. "
"You brought other women here?" The question came out before I could stop it, sharper than I'd intended.
"Jealous?" His eyes glinted with amusement in the candlelight.
I shrugged, aiming for casualness. "Curious."
He leaned back, studying me with that particular intensity that made me feel like I was the most interesting thing he'd seen all day. "A few. None of them lasted past the second date."
"What happened on the second date?"
"They asked too many questions." His eyes crinkled. "You, on the other hand? I rather like you interrogating me."
"Someone has to keep you honest."
"And you've always been so good at that." His words carried weight. We both knew what he was really saying, that I'd been the only one who'd ever challenged him, who'd refused to let him charm his way out of difficult conversations.
A waiter materialized beside our table with menus. Femi waved his away without looking. "The tasting menu. For both of us." He glanced at me. "Unless you'd prefer to choose yourself?"
"You seem to have it handled."
"I do." He leaned back, studying me. Like I was a problem he enjoyed solving. "You look beautiful tonight, by the way. I should have said that earlier."
"You were too busy being mysterious."
"I was building anticipation, yeah?" His accent got slightly thicker when he was relaxed, I noticed. More Nigerian rhythms creeping into the British polish. "Setting the mood and all that."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
He laughed. God, that laugh. It hadn't changed at all. The sound of it did something to me, something I'd been trying very hard to ignore. It made me remember other times he'd laughed like that. In bed, mostly.
I picked up my wine glass and drank to cover my reaction.
The first course arrived moments later, presented on pristine white plates like edible art. Something with burrata, and heirloom tomatoes in shades of red and yellow. A drizzle of olive oil that gleamed. Fresh basil leaves so fragrant I could smell them from across the table.
I took a bite and had to close my eyes. The flavors exploded on my tongue. Bright, fresh, perfectly balanced. Sweet and savory and rich all at once.
"Good?" Femi asked, his voice low and amused.
"Don't gloat."
"I would never."
"You're gloating right now. I can hear it in your voice."
He raised both hands in mock surrender, his cufflinks catching the candlelight. "I’m just appreciating, Issy. Just enjoying the moment."
I shook my head, but I was smiling despite myself.
This was the problem with Femi. He made everything easy. Conversation flowed like we'd never stopped having it. He remembered things—the way I liked my wine, my habit of eating the garnish first, the face I made when something was really good.
He made me forget why I’d spent eight years avoiding him. The rhythm between us was still there, still effortless, like muscle memory we couldn't shake.
"You still do that," he said, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
"Do what?" I popped another piece of tomato in my mouth.
"That little hum. When you taste something you love." He tilted his head, and the candlelight caught the angles of his face, made him look younger somehow. "You used to do it with mum’s jollof rice. Drove her absolutely mad because you wouldn't tell her what you were humming about."
The memory hit me unexpectedly, sharp and sweet. His mother's kitchen in Lagos. The heat, the noise, the smell of tomatoes and peppers and spices I couldn't name. His mother laughing, adding more spice because she knew I liked it hot. Femi stealing bites from my plate when she wasn't looking.
I pressed my lips together, trying to suppress the sound. He grinned at me, triumphant, and I felt something crack in my chest.
"I miss your mum," I admitted before I could stop myself. "She was always so kind to me."
"She asks about you, you know. Every time I see her." He took a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. "I've had to become quite creative with my deflections. She's convinced I let the love of my life slip away."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning.
"Did you?" The question came out before I could stop it.
Femi's expression shifted. Something raw and unguarded flickered across his face before he smoothed it away behind his usual charm.
"I suppose that depends on whether she'll let me catch her again," he said, his voice had gone softer, more serious.
My throat felt tight. I looked down at my plate, avoiding his gaze.
"Femi..."
"I know." His voice was gentle now, understanding. "I'm not asking for answers tonight, yeah? I'm not trying to pressure you or make you uncomfortable. I'm just... being honest. Something I should have been better at, back then."
The second course arrived, saving me from having to respond. Lamb, pink in the center, with something green and herbaceous underneath. We ate in silence for a moment, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who didn't need to fill every gap with noise.
"Do you remember Geneva?" he asked eventually, his voice casual.
"Which part of Geneva?” I took a sip of wine, buying time. “We spent two years there together. That’s a lot of memories."
"The night before my graduation. When we snuck out to the lake."
Oh. That night.
I remembered. Of course, I remembered that night.
How could I forget? I still had two years left in boarding school, so to mourn our temporary separation, we’d stolen a bottle of champagne from the headmaster's private collection and sat on the dock with our feet in the water, talking until the sun came up.
"You told me you were going to build something extraordinary," Femi said, his eyes distant with memory.
"That you didn't care if nobody believed in you, because you believed in yourself.
And I remember thinking..." He paused, swirled his wine.
"I remember thinking that I'd never met anyone so certain of who they were. "
"I wasn't certain.” The words came out rough, honest. “I was terrified."
"You hid it well."
"I hid everything well. It was the only way to survive."
He nodded slowly, his expression understanding.
"I think I always knew, actually. I just didn't understand what it meant.
" He reached across the table. His fingers brushed mine, light and questioning.
"I should have been better, Issy. I should have listened more instead of trying to hold on so tight. "
I didn't pull away. I should have. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to pull away, to put distance between us, to remember why we'd broken up in the first place.
But his hand was warm, and the wine was good, and somewhere between the burrata and the lamb, I'd forgotten why I was supposed to be keeping my distance.
"What would you have done differently?" I asked. "If you could go back. If you knew then what you know now."
"Everything." He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "Or perhaps just one thing. The most important thing.” He took a breath. “I wouldn't have proposed. Not then. Not like that. Not in a way that felt like I was trapping you.”
The memory rose up between us, sharp and painful. Him on one knee with a velvet box. The way his face had crumpled when I said no.
“I loved you, Isabelle.” His voice dropped lower, more intense. “I still do, if I'm being honest. But I never wanted to own you. I never wanted to make you small or hold you back or keep you in a box."
He squeezed my hand gently. “I just... I was young and stupid and terrified of losing you.
I thought if I could just make it official, make you promise, then you couldn't leave.
Then I could keep you." He smiled, but it was sad and self-aware.
"But that's not how love works, is it? You can't keep people by forcing promises.
You can only love them and trust them and hope they choose to stay. "
"But I did leave," I said quietly.
"You did." He nodded, his eyes on me were sad and tinged with old hurt. "I spent eight years trying to understand why. Trying to become someone who wouldn't make the same mistakes."
"And have you?" My voice came out softer than I intended. "Become that person?"
"I don't know. But I'd very much like the chance to find out. To show you that I've changed. That I can be what you need this time."