A Bite

(The restaurant is warm and dimly lit—candles flickering on every table, the smell of garlic and fresh bread filling the air.)

(We're tucked into a corner booth, menus open in front of us.)

Her: (Eyes scanning the pages, lingering on different dishes.) Everything looks so good.

Me: Yeah? What are you thinking?

Her: (Pointing.) The arancini sounds amazing. And the caprese salad. Oh, and they have fresh burrata...

Me: (Watching her face light up.) Get them.

Her: (Hesitating.) I don't know...

Me: Why not?

Her: (Quieter, looking down at the menu.) That's a lot of food.

Me: So? You want to try them.

Her: (Fidgeting with the edge of her napkin.) I don't want to order all that. People will think—

Me: (Reaching across the table, taking her hand.) People will think what?

Her: (Not meeting my eyes.) That I'm... you know. That I eat too much.

Me: (Squeezing her hand.) Baby—

Her: (Quickly.) I'll just get the pasta. The carbonara looks good.

Me: (Studying her face.) Just the carbonara?

Her: (Nodding, closing her menu.) Yeah. That's enough.

(The waiter comes over. She orders her carbonara—voice small, almost apologetic.)

Waiter: And for you, sir?

Me: I'll have the arancini to start. And the caprese salad. Oh, and can we get an order of the burrata? With the prosciutto?

Her: (Looking at me, eyes widening slightly.)

Me: And for the main, I'll do the osso buco. Thanks.

(The waiter nods and walks away. She's staring at me.)

Her: (Whispering.) That's so much food.

Me: (Shrugging.) I'm hungry.

Her: You never eat that much.

Me: (Smiling.) Maybe I'm extra hungry tonight.

Her: (Biting her lip, but there's a hint of a smile.) You're ordering everything I wanted.

Me: Am I?

Her: (Softly.) You know you are.

Me: (Leaning forward.) Then I guess you'll have to help me eat it all. Can't let it go to waste.

Her: (Eyes getting a little watery.) You didn't have to do that.

Me: Yes, I did.

Her: But—

Me: (Firmly, gently.) I want you to try everything you want. And if this is how we do it, then this is how we do it.

Her: (Looking down, voice thick.) People are going to think you're a big eater.

Me: (Grinning.) Let them. As long as you don’t think so.

(She squeezes my hand across the table. Doesn't let go.)

(The food starts arriving. First the arancini—golden, crispy rice balls with marinara for dipping.)

Me: (Picking one up with my fork, holding it across the table.) Open up.

Her: (Hesitating.) I have my own food coming—

Me: (Still holding it out.) Open, for me babydoll.

(She does. I feed her the bite, watching her eyes close as she chews.)

Her: (Opening her eyes.) Oh my god.

Me: Good?

Her: (Nodding.) So good.

Me: (Smiling.) Good. Have more, baby.

(Next comes the caprese—thick slices of tomato and mozzarella, fresh basil, balsamic drizzled on top.)

Me: (Cutting a piece, tomato and cheese together.) This one looks perfect.

(I hold the fork out. She leans forward, takes the bite. A little balsamic clings to the corner of her mouth.)

Me: (Reaching over with my napkin, wiping it gently.) You've got a little...

Her: (Blushing.) Thanks.

Me: (Staring at her.) You look really cute when you eat, you know that?

Her: (Covering her face with her hands.) Stop.

Me: I'm serious. The way your eyes light up when you taste something good. The little sounds you make.

Her: (Peeking through her fingers.) I do not make sounds.

Me: (Grinning.) You absolutely do.

(The burrata arrives—creamy, decadent, with prosciutto draped over the top.)

Me: (Tearing off a piece of bread, scooping up burrata and prosciutto.) Okay, this one you have to try.

Her: (Leaning forward, taking the bite from my hand.)

(Her eyes close again. She makes a small sound—almost a hum of pleasure.)

Me: (Laughing softly.) See? You make sounds.

Her: (Blushing deeper, but smiling.) Okay, maybe I do.

Me: (Preparing another bite.) It's my favorite sound.

Her: (Quietly.) You're making this really hard for me to feel embarrassed.

Me: (Feeding her another bite.) That's the point.

(Her carbonara arrives. My osso buco. She starts eating her pasta, and I can see her relax—finally enjoying herself.)

Me: (Cutting a piece of the osso buco—the meat falling off the bone.) You have to try this one too.

Her: (Mouth already a little full.) I'm eating my own food!

Me: (Holding it out anyway.) Just one bite.

(She takes it. Her eyes widen.)

Her: (After swallowing.) Okay, that's incredible.

Me: (Cutting another piece.) Another?

Her: (Reaching for it with her own fork this time.) Yes, please.

(We eat like that—sharing bites, her trying everything on my plate, me stealing the occasional forkful of her carbonara.)

(She's glowing now. Smiling. Completely at ease.)

Her: (Setting down her fork, looking at me with soft eyes.) Thank you.

Me: For what?

Her: For this. For... understanding. For not making me feel weird about it.

Me: (Taking her hand again.) You never have to feel weird with me. Ever. About anything.

Her: (Voice quiet.) I love you.

Me: (Bringing her hand to my lips, kissing her knuckles.) I love you too. And I love watching you eat. And I love that you wanted to try everything. And I love that you're mine.

Her: (Smiling through tears she's trying to blink away.) You're going to make me cry in this nice restaurant.

Me: (Grinning.) Then I did my job right.

(The waiter comes back, asking about dessert.)

Her: (Looking at the menu, then at me.) They have tiramisu...

Me: (Without hesitation.) We'll take two tiramisus, please.

Her: (Laughing softly.) Two?

Me: (Winking.) One for me. One for you. But I'm probably going to need help with mine.

Her: (Shaking her head, still smiling.) You're ridiculous.

Me: (Squeezing her hand.) And you're beautiful. Especially when you're eating tiramisu.

Her: (Leaning across the table, kissing me softly.) Thank you for being you.

Me: (Kissing her back.) Thank you for being mine.

(And when the tiramisu comes, I feed her the first bite—watching her eyes light up all over again, watching her be happy, watching her be free.)

(And that's all I ever wanted.)