The restaurant was half-empty by dessert, candle flames flickering low in glass holders that caught the light like captured fireflies. We’d been seated at a corner table, somewhat private, with one chair conspicuously absent—the one where a third person might have sat if this weren’t a date disguised as dinner with friends.He noticed it first. “Who’s missing?”I smiled over the rim of my wineglass. “Does it matter?”His eyes darkened fractionally, the way wine deepens in color when you tilt the bottle just so. Conversation flowed easily after that: work frustrations, favorite hidden bars, the peculiar thrill of walking alone at night in unfamiliar cities. Safe topics, laced with undercurrents.The waiter cleared our plates, leaving the table bare except for our glasses and the small vase of wilting peonies between us. He reached across—casual, reaching for the water pitcher—and let his fingers brush mine as he passed it. The touch was feather-light, deniable, but it sent awareness skittering up my arm.I didn’t move my hand. Neither did he. Our fingers stayed there, overlapping on the white linen, while we discussed the merits of tiramisu versus crème brûlée as if nothing were happening beneath the words.The empty chair became our silent accomplice. It allowed us to lean closer without excuse, elbows nearly touching, knees angled under the table until they met—mine bare beneath a knee-length dress, his pressed against wool trousers. The contact was warm, insistent, a steady pressure that neither of us acknowledged aloud.Dessert arrived eventually: two spoons, one plate of chocolate torte. He offered the first bite, holding the spoon steady while I leaned in. My lips closed around it slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze the entire time. His exhale was controlled, but I saw the way his fingers tightened on the spoon’s handle.”Your turn,” I said, taking it from him.I fed him in return—smaller bite, lingering longer, letting the corner of my mouth graze the metal as I pulled back. His eyes never left mine. The empty chair watched, impartial.The bill came and went unnoticed. We lingered over coffee, now, legs fully entwined beneath the tablecloth, the fabric hiding the slow slide of my foot along his ankle. His hand had migrated to my knee sometime during the espresso—resting there, thumb circling in lazy patterns that climbed incrementally higher with each revolution.No one disturbed us. The restaurant’s hush amplified every small sound: the clink of a spoon against porcelain, the soft catch of breath when his fingers discovered the hem of my dress and ventured just beneath.”Tell me,” he murmured, voice pitched for my ears only, “what would you do if that chair weren’t empty?”I considered, letting my own hand drift to his thigh under the table—firm muscle under fabric, heat building. “I’d make sure they left early.”His laugh was low, almost silent. His hand mirrored mine then, settling on my thigh with matching pressure. We sat like that, mirrors of each other, until the waiter hovered meaningfully by the bar.Outside, the night air was crisp, a contrast to the warmth we’d cultivated. At my car, he opened the door but didn’t step back. Instead he braced one hand on the roof, the other on the frame, caging me gently against the seat.The kiss was inevitable—deep, unhurried, tasting of dark chocolate and restraint finally fracturing. When we broke apart, his forehead rested against mine.”Next time,” he said, “we book for two.”I drove home with the empty passenger seat mocking me, but filled with the memory of his hand on my thigh, the promise of chairs that wouldn’t stay empty forever.