When Rowan and Thorne chose that restaurant to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Rowan believed the universe was smiling on them.
It was the same place where they’d had their very first date—twenty-eight years earlier. Back then, Thorne had spilled red wine on his shirt and laughed it off, charming her completely. They’d been young, hopeful, certain that love like theirs could withstand anything.
That night, Rowan felt that same flutter in her chest as she smoothed her dress and followed the host to their table. Candlelight danced along golden walls, and the air was thick with the familiar comfort of garlic butter, grilled meat, and something faintly sweet she could never quite identify.
This was supposed to be special.
“Happy anniversary, my love,” Thorne said, raising his glass. His smile was warm, practiced—but his eyes drifted past her shoulder before she could even clink her glass to his.
Rowan noticed.
She noticed everything.
At first, she told herself she was imagining it. People glance around restaurants all the time. It meant nothing. But then it happened again. And again. His gaze followed the same path each time.
She turned slightly and saw her.
Their waitress.
The young woman moved through the room with effortless grace, her chestnut hair pulled loosely back, laughter flickering easily across her face. She was striking—youthful in a way that caught attention without trying. Rowan felt the familiar sting of comparison settle in her chest.
Thorne was fifty-eight. The waitress couldn’t have been older than thirty.
Rowan picked up her wine and took a slow sip, hoping it would calm the tightness behind her ribs.
“Funny how this place hasn’t changed,” she said lightly. “Even the paint color looks the same.”
“Yes—” Thorne replied distractedly, already raising his hand to signal the waitress.
She approached with a bright smile. “Good evening! Ready to order?”
Thorne straightened. “Absolutely. I’ll have the steak with roasted potatoes and a green salad. And my wife will have the grilled salmon with mashed potatoes.”
Rowan blinked.
That wasn’t what she wanted. She’d been eyeing the lamb chops all week. But correcting him felt pointless—his attention was already drifting back to the waitress.
“Excellent choice,” the waitress said politely, though her eyes flicked briefly to Rowan, as if checking in.
“Your name?” Thorne asked, leaning forward.
“Saffron,” she replied.
“Saffron,” he repeated, smiling. “Beautiful name.”
Rowan’s fingers curled tighter around her napkin.
Saffron tried to disengage, mentioning dessert and the kitchen being busy, but Thorne kept talking—asking where she lived, how long she’d worked there, whether she enjoyed it. Rowan sat quietly, nodding when appropriate, feeling more invisible by the second.
By the time their food arrived, the knot in her stomach had hardened into something painful.
She tried again—bringing up old vacations, shared jokes, memories she thought would anchor him back to her. But his attention drifted every time Saffron crossed the room.
Finally, Rowan couldn’t bear it.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, standing abruptly.
She didn’t wait for a response.
The restroom was empty and quiet, and the moment the door shut behind her, the tears came. She gripped the edge of the sink, staring at her reflection—older, softer, tired.
It’s our anniversary, she thought. How did I become background noise?
After several deep breaths, she washed her face and reapplied her lipstick. She wasn’t going to let this ruin everything. Not tonight.
When she stepped back into the dining room, her heart stopped.
Saffron stood beside their table, leaning toward Thorne. She slipped a small folded note into his hand.
Rowan froze.
Thorne glanced down, his face flushing instantly. He shoved the note into his pocket with a speed that felt like a confession.
The room seemed to tilt.
When Rowan returned to the table, Thorne smiled too quickly.
“Everything okay?” she asked, forcing her voice steady.
“Yes—yes,” he replied. “Just… work. A message came through. You know how it is.”
She nodded, though every instinct screamed that he was lying.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Rowan barely tasted her food. Thorne fidgeted. They spoke little. The magic she’d hoped for never returned.
At home, Thorne tossed the note into the trash before announcing he needed to stop by the office.
Rowan waited until the door closed before retrieving it.
Her hands trembled as she smoothed the paper open.
You have a radiant wife sitting across from you. Her eyes are full of love, and yet you’re staring at me. She deserves your attention—your respect. Cherish her.
Rowan sank onto the couch, tears spilling freely now—but this time from relief.
When Thorne returned, he carried wine, flowers, and dessert.
“I was wrong tonight,” he said quietly. “I lost sight of what matters.”
Rowan held up the note.
He nodded. “I deserved that.”
They talked late into the night—really talked. About time, complacency, gratitude, and how easily love can fade into habit if you let it.
The next day, Rowan returned to the restaurant.
“Thank you,” she told Saffron sincerely. “You reminded my husband who he married.”
Saffron smiled gently. “Sometimes people just need a mirror.”
Rowan walked out lighter than she’d felt in years—ready, once again, to choose love.