Chapter 10: Dinner
The text came through just after her last class, as she was shoving a philosophy textbook into her bag.
Joe: Still okay with slow?
She smiled, the familiar warmth spreading through her chest.
Svet: Depends. Is this a philosophical question about the passage of time, or are you asking me something?
Three dots appeared, lingered, then disappeared. A minute later, her phone buzzed.
Joe: I’m asking if I can take you out tomorrow night. Somewhere that isn’t a basement or a game room. A proper date.
She bit her lip. A proper date. The words carried weight, a deliberate pivot from secret to official. This was him steering, carefully, just like he’d promised.
Svet: A proper date, huh? Will there be furniture not covered in beer stains?
Joe: Guaranteed. And plates. Multiple forks, possibly.
Svet: You’re speaking my love language. I’m in.
Joe: Good. Pick you up at 7?
Svet: I’ll be the one in clothes.
He sent back a laughing emoji. It was endearingly dorky, coming from him.
Friday evening found her staring into the abyss of her closet. Alexa had offered to raid her own considerable arsenal, but Svet had declined. This felt like it required something of her own. She settled on a simple but sharp black wrap dress that hugged her curves and made her hazel eyes look greener. She left her hair down, a cascade of blonde over her shoulders. The look was classic, confident. It felt like armor and an invitation all at once.
At 7:01 PM, a low knock sounded on her apartment door. She opened it to find Joe filling the frame, dressed in dark gray trousers and a navy button-down that strained just slightly across his chest. He’d shaved. The scent of clean, woody soap wafted in.
“Wow,” he said softly, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep that made her skin prickle.
“You clean up okay yourself, Alt.” She grabbed her small clutch. “So, where’s this temple of multiple forks?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He drove a sensible SUV, immaculately clean. The radio was tuned to a classic soul station. He navigated the LA traffic with a calm, patient efficiency that was utterly at odds with his profession of controlled violence.
“You’re quiet,” he observed after a while, glancing over.
“Just thinking. This is… normal. It’s nice.”
“Were you expecting a monster truck rally?”
“I don’t know what I was expecting.” She looked out the window. “This is just easier than I thought it would be.”
He reached across the center console, his large hand covering hers. He didn’t say anything. He just let it rest there, a warm, steady weight until he had to shift gears again.
The restaurant was in Santa Monica, perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. It was the kind of place with valet parking, muted lighting, and a maître d' who nodded with recognition. “Mr. Alt. Your table is ready.”
“You come here often?” Svet whispered as they were led through the elegant, hushed dining room.
“With the team sometimes. Owner’s a fan.” He pulled out her chair for her, his movements instinctively graceful for his size. “I thought you might like the view.”
She did. The wall of glass revealed the endless, dark expanse of the ocean, the lights of the pier glittering in the distance like a fallen necklace. It was breathtaking, and expensive. The kind of place her father would take clients.
A sommelier appeared. Joe ordered a bottle of pinot noir without looking at the menu.
“Show off,” Svet teased, unfolding her linen napkin.
He grinned. “I did my homework.”
When the wine was poured and they were alone with the flickering candle between them, a comfortable silence settled. It wasn’t the tense silence of the game room after Diego’s exit, or the charged silence of the basement. This was different. She studied him in the low light—the strong line of his jaw, the surprising softness in his brown eyes as he looked at her.
“So,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Petrov. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Like what? My social security number?”
“Like why a philosophy major who beats frat boys at pool is scared of a guy with too many forks.”
She took a sip of wine. It was velvety and rich. “I’m not scared of the forks. I’m wary of the expectations that come with them. Places like this… they set a scene. It creates a script. I’ve never been good at following scripts.”
He considered that, nodding slowly. “No scripts tonight. Just you and me and the ocean.” He leaned forward a little. “What does your dad do?”
She sighed, a theatrical, put-upon sound. “Ah, the question. He’s in ‘asset management.’ Which is a fancy way of saying he makes rich people richer. Commercial real estate, venture capital, that whole world.” She saw the question in his eyes. “And before you ask, yes, we have money. A lot of it. No, it doesn’t mean anything to me. My parents are… transactional. Love is a negotiation. Affection is a performance review. This,” she gestured around, “is my normal. But it’s not me.”
He listened, completely focused. “What is you?”
“Me?” She shrugged. “The game room. Beating your ass at pool. Bad pizza. Music that’s too loud. Things that feel real, not curated.” She met his gaze. “What about you? What’s the real Joe Alt, away from the stadium and the headlines?”
He looked out at the dark water for a moment. “Quiet. I like quiet. I like building things. My grandpa and I rebuilt a ‘67 Chevy pickup when I was in high school. I like things I can fix with my hands, where the rules are simple. Football… it’s not simple, but it’s clear. You protect your guy. You move forward. There’s a brutal clarity to it I can handle. The other stuff… the noise… I just tune it out.”
Their food arrived—seared scallops for her, a ribeye for him. The conversation flowed easier then, over the meal. She told him about growing up in a cold, pristine house in Calabasas, about learning pool from a grieving old groundskeeper who found solace in the geometry of the game. He talked about the constant moving of his childhood for his dad’s coaching jobs, about the pressure of being a “gentle giant,” about how Alexa was the only person who never treated him like a spectacle.
“She’s the best,” Svet said, her heart swelling with affection for her friend. “A chaos gremlin, but the best.”
“She adores you,” Joe said. “She’s been trying to get me to ask you out for months.”
“What stopped you?”
“You seemed… complete. Like you had your own world, your own rules. I didn’t want to be another guy clambering into it, messing it up.”
The honesty of it stunned her. She put her fork down. “You’re not.”
They shared a dessert, a decadent chocolate torte, passing the fork back and forth. The wine was gone. The candle had burned low.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, his voice even softer now.
“Sure.”
“The other night… in the game room. Diego said what he said. And before that, with other guys…” He hesitated, searching for the words. “You’re sharp. You see right through people. So how come…”
“How come I’ve had such a shitty track record?” She finished for him, a wry smile on her lips. She traced the rim of her wine glass. “Because seeing through someone doesn’t make you immune to hoping you’re wrong. You date a guy who loves how you look on his arm, and you hope maybe he’ll start seeing you. You date the funny one who makes everyone laugh, and you hope he’ll save some of that sincerity for you in private. You date the ‘nice guy’ and hope his niceness isn’t just a transaction waiting for a payoff.” She looked up at him, her guard down, her cynicism stripped away by the wine and the night and his unwavering attention. “They were all performances. And I was always just… an audience member who stayed too long, hoping for a backstage pass that never came.”
Joe was utterly still, watching her.
“So,” she said, taking a breath, forcing a lighter tone. “Turns out I’m better at pool than I am at dating. Who knew?”
“Svet.” His voice was a gravelly whisper. “How many boyfriends have you had?”
The question hung in the air. She could lie. She could deflect with a joke. But the clarity in his eyes demanded the truth.
“None,” she said, the word simple and stark in the luxurious air. “Not real ones. You’re… you’re the first guy I’ve actually wanted to call that. The first one that felt… real. From the beginning.”
The silence that followed was profound. She watched the understanding dawn on his face, followed by a wave of something tender and fiercely protective. He hadn’t known. The kiss in the game room, her confidence, her sarcasm—it had all masked this.
“And the other night?” he asked gently. “In the basement?”
“First kiss that mattered,” she admitted, her face warm. “Pathetic, right? For a 21-year-old?”
“No.” The word was absolute. He reached across the table, his hand enveloping hers. “Not pathetic. An honor. A huge, terrifying honor.”
He paid the check, refusing to let her even glance at it. They walked out to the valet, the cool ocean air a shock after the warmth inside. He helped her into the SUV, his hand lingering on her back.
The drive back was quiet, but the silence now was full, pulsing with the new knowledge between them. He walked her to her door.
Under the yellowish glow of the apartment complex lights, he looked down at her. “I feel like I should have taken you somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t… all that.”
“I loved it,” she said, meaning it. “Because it was with you.”
He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Slow,” he murmured, as if reminding himself. “Our terms.”
“Our terms,” she agreed.
He kissed her then, not swift and possessive like in the game room, but deep and sweet and lingering. A promise. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against hers.
“Goodnight, Svet,” he breathed.
“Goodnight, Joe.”
He waited until she was inside, the door locked behind her, before she heard his footsteps retreat. She leaned against the door, her heart hammering against her ribs. The scent of him, of the ocean, of expensive wine, clung to her skin.
In the quiet of her apartment, the memory of his face—the shock, the tenderness, the weight of his “honor”—replayed behind her eyes. For the first time, the cynicism didn’t rush in to fence her off. It stayed quiet, overshadowed by a fragile, thrilling hope. He knew her now. The real, un-curated truth of her inexperience, her guarded heart. And he hadn’t run.
He’d called it an honor.
She slid down the door to the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and let herself smile into the empty, welcoming dark.