The touch between them had always been different. What once felt intimate, comfortable, now only seemed to magnify the distance between them. Weston’s arms, strong and familiar, pulled Stella to him without giving her a chance to protest. His grip was firm, as if he didn’t expect her to refuse him, and, in a strange way, that made it even harder for her to break free.
Stella blinked and slowly came back to her senses. Her frown deepened as she attempted to push him away, but his presence felt inescapable. “I can walk on my own,” she said, her voice tight with irritation.
Weston’s response was cool and almost mocking. “Weren’t you scared earlier? Are you not scared anymore?” His tone was laced with something she couldn’t quite identify—something far too self-assured.
Stella’s discomfort grew with each passing second. “If you don’t let me go, I’m not going in,” she insisted, her voice edged with frustration.
His expression darkened, his patience thinning. He held her gaze for a moment, then said flatly, “Whatever you want.” He let go of her, turning and walking away without waiting for her to follow.
Stella hesitated but then followed, unsure of what else to do. They walked for what felt like an eternity, the silence between them pressing in like a heavy weight. The air felt dense, thick with unspoken words. It wasn’t until she heard the sound of footsteps up ahead that she stiffened, her senses on high alert. She stayed vigilant, only relaxing when a soft voice greeted them.
“Hello, do you have an appointment?” a polite voice asked. Stella exhaled in relief—so this was actually a restaurant. The strange atmosphere had made her doubt it for a moment.
The waitress, holding a small white candle, led them into the depths of the restaurant. Despite the place’s eerie feel, her demeanor remained calm, professional, though her face gave little away. She ushered them into a private room, the design of the restaurant adding to its mystique. The walls were lined with small rooms on either side, each narrow and warmly decorated in contrast to the stark corridor they’d walked through.
They arrived at their destination, a door too short for Weston to pass through without bending down. Stella followed behind him, the unfamiliar darkness around them causing her to pause. The waitress gave a soft warning: “Be careful.”
Before Stella could even react, her foot caught on something, sending her stumbling forward. But before she could hit the ground, Weston’s arms were around her, steadying her with surprising gentleness. His breath was warm against her ear as he whispered, “If you can’t see, hold on to me.”
She quickly pulled away, ignoring his offer. She was still angry, still stubborn. Though Weston’s patience had remained unbroken, it was clear that even he was beginning to wear thin with her resistance. His frown deepened, but he said nothing and simply let her go.
The waitress set the table with elegant precision, placing candles and arranging the tableware with a quiet grace. “Welcome to Noir Restaurant,” she began. “This place is special. We ask that you focus solely on the food in front of you. No phones, no distractions. Conversation is encouraged, but please, try to immerse yourself in the meal.”
She then brought out a silver tray and, with a glance at both Weston and Stella, added, “Please place your phones here. Someone will bring them back to you after your meal.”
Stella, having never been to such a place, glanced at Weston for reassurance. When she saw him place his phone on the tray without hesitation, she reluctantly followed suit, handing over her own phone. The waitress took the devices and left them in silence.
The room was dim, the only illumination coming from the flickering candles. The only sound in the room was the quiet clink of plates being placed on the table. The atmosphere was heavy, filled with the tension of unspoken words and silent glares. Neither of them spoke a word.
Stella welcomed the silence. It allowed her to save her energy and gave her some reprieve from Weston’s overbearing presence. Her stomach growled, reminding her that hunger didn’t care about the emotional baggage weighing down the room. She glanced across the table at Weston but quickly dismissed him from her mind, focusing instead on the food before her.
Despite the bizarre setting and the oppressive quiet, she had to admit—the food was exceptional. The flavors were rich, and the presentation impeccable. It was hard to deny the craftsmanship behind each dish, but the strange atmosphere of the place only made her feel more isolated. The meal seemed like a necessary distraction, a temporary escape from the uncomfortable tension that hung thick between them.
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