So instead, I sit across from a man who barely acknowledges me, pretending this is enough, that I am enough.

But beneath all the reasons I tell myself I stay, there's one I never let surface—one that sits heavy and unspoken in my soul. The real reason I don't leave isn't my family. It's me, and the voice inside my head that sounds like Evan when we fight, when his frustration cracks through his perfect exterior and his words turn mean.

“You think you'll find someone better than me? Guys don't want a girl like you, Izzy. They don't want someone who doesn't take care of herself. Look at you—you're not the girl I started dating. I could be with someone who actually respects me enough to put effort into her body, but I'm with you. I choose you.”

That's the part that guts me most—somewhere along the way, I started believing him. Started believing that if I walked away, I wouldn't just be single. I'd be alone, because who else would want me? I work too much, I'm too busy, I don't have the slim body that makes men go wild or the effortless beauty that makes people stare. Not anymore.

Evan reminds me of that often, always sounding almost reasonable, like he's just trying to help, like he wants me to be better. And maybe I should want to be better. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should be grateful someone like him stays with someone like me.

What if it's true? What if Evan is the best I'll ever get? What if I leave and no one else wants me? What if this is my only shot at not ending up alone?

It doesn't matter because I'm not leaving. I already made my choice. I chose him, even if deep down I know he doesn't really choose me in return. The beginnings of a tension headache form, and internally, I groan. This dinner is supposed to be a celebration of my promotion, yet here I am, feeling smaller than ever.

Our food arrives with a waft of charred meat and herbs. Evan sets his phone down but still doesn't look up, his eyes darting between phone and plate. I visibly roll my eyes, not that he'd notice, and try to take a bite of steak with the texture of a hockey puck.

I glare at the pathetic salad on my plate, no dressing, no croutons—nothing that might make this punishment disguised as dinner remotely enjoyable. The bitter greens sit in sad contrast to the perfectly crisp, golden potato side on Evan's plate. Three years ago, we shared appetizers, ordered dessert, split a bottle of wine that left our lips stained purple and our laughter loose. Now I'm being fed like a reluctant zoo animal.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter, the fabric of my dress pulling across my chest, determined to salvage the night. "I spent half the day in an operations meeting about the seasonal inventory rollout. They're projecting a twenty percent increase in holiday foot traffic, so I need to finalize the hiring plan by next week and make sure the new associates are trained in time."

"Mmhmm." He's still scrolling.

"It's a logistical nightmare. The corporate team has ideas about maximizing sales, but they don't actually work in the store, so half of it isn't realistic. They want us to push high-end accessories at checkout, which sounds great except the only people who impulse-buy a $900 scarf are those who don't need to be upsold in the first place."

"Oh. Right." Clearly not listening, he pops bread into his mouth, dismissing me completely. The buttery smell wafts across the table, tempting me. His eyes trail over my plate, noticing I've barely touched my salad. "Not hungry?"

The way he says it makes my skin crawl—like he's checking to make sure I'm sticking to some unspoken diet plan we never agreed on.

I don’t bother responding. I glance around the restaurant at the couple next to us actually talking, laughing, engaging. The clink of their glasses as they toast mingles with the soft murmur of their conversation. The man leans toward his date, hands brushing over her bare arms, gaze full of admiration. When was the last time Evan looked at me like that? When was the last time I felt like more than background noise in his life?

I realize with a sinking feeling that it was around the same time my body started changing. As if his affection came with weight restrictions I hadn't been informed about.

I exhale slowly, the taste of disappointment bitter on my tongue, letting it go. I've learned not to push because he'll just act like I'm overreacting, too sensitive, too needy. I turn back to my plate.

And that's when I feel it—a shift, like the air around me has changed. A prickle of awareness runs down my spine, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I feel it before I even turn my head: that unmistakable pull of being watched.

Slowly, I glance up and lock eyes with a stranger across the restaurant. His features are striking—sharp jaw, dark hair, broad shoulders stretching his black dress shirt. He sits near the bar, one hand resting loosely around a glass of amber liquid, the other draped over his thigh.

As he shifts in his seat, something metallic glints at his collar—dog tags, peeking out from beneath his shirt. The sight sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Military. There's a quiet authority to him that suddenly makes perfect sense.

He looks completely at ease, but his expression is focused. He isn't just glancing at me. He isn't distracted, like so many of the other men in this place, half-listening to their dates while checking the time or their stock portfolios.

No. He's fully, deliberately watching me.

His eyes don't waver or dart away when our gazes meet. He isn't embarrassed to be caught staring. If anything, I get the unnerving feeling that he wants me to know he's studying me, memorizing me.

A slow prickle of heat runs up my arms, raising goosebumps despite the warmth of the restaurant. I should look away, reach for my wine, shift my attention back to Evan, let this moment pass before it becomes a tangle I can't unravel. But I don't—because for the first time tonight, I feel seen. Not just acknowledged like when the waiter took my order, not glanced at like an afterthought between phone swipes. But really, fully seen.

And not in the way Evan sees me now—as a body that's failed him, a project that needs fixing, something lesser. This stranger looks at me without judgment, his expression filled with nothing but pure, undisguised interest. It's been so long since anyone looked at me like that, I’d almost forgotten how it feels.

My fingers tighten around my napkin, the fabric rough against my skin, as the moment stretches longer than it should. The silver chain at his neck catches the light again, drawing my eyes to the hollow of his throat. I wonder absently what name is stamped into those tags, what identity they represent.

The waiter arrives with our check, breaking the tension with the soft thud of leather on the table. When I look back, the man is still watching, but something in his expression has shifted. A realization. A question I don't know how to answer.

Evan clears his throat, tossing his credit card onto the table like he's doing the staff a favor. "You ready?"

His voice pulls me from whatever strange haze I’ve fallen into. I drag in a breath, fingers curling against the tablecloth as I hesitate.

"I was thinking about getting dessert," I say lightly. I don't know why—maybe I want a few more minutes here, to steal another glance at the stranger.

Evan scoffs. "You don't need dessert," he says with just enough amusement to sound like a joke but not enough to disguise what he actually means. The waiter returns with the receipt, and Evan slides his card back into his wallet, already moving toward the exit. "Let's go."

I press my lips together, tasting the remnants of my red lipstick, swallowing any protest, and force myself to nod with the same polite, agreeable smile that keeps the peace. Three years of letting Evan dictate what I should eat, how I should look, when I should speak. Three years of shrinking myself in every way except physically.