“Our goal is to provide our guests a fun, inventive dining experience,” Nathaniel says. “But our chef does have a master’s degree in nutritional science. I can bring him out for an interview at the end of the meal.”

“We’d love that, thank you,” Dominic says. “About how long did it take you to get used to the dark?”

“There was a lot of stumbling at first, a lot of dropped plates.” If I could see, I imagine he’d be smiling. “But we got the hang of it after a couple of weeks.”

“Do you just have people ripping off each other’s clothing by the end of the meal?” I ask. I am a Serious Professional Journalist.

Nathaniel laughs. “Not exactly,” he says, “but if they were, we wouldn’t notice.”

He retreats to the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” I ask Dominic. “The maca isn’t too strong?”

“Are you asking if I’m horny?”

I choke on my next spoonful of soup. “Gross, no, I don’t want to know that.”

Truthfully, I feel a little something not unlike what I felt in the station kitchen. It could be entirely psychological, the dark playing tricks on me the way the alcohol did. The table is tiny, and our knees keep knocking together beneath it. It’s only when he pulls his legs back that I realize we’ve been touching for the past one and a half courses.

“You’re still anxious about the numbers,” Dominic says.

“How can you tell? You can’t even see my face.”

“It’s your tone.”

I didn’t realize we’d been spending so much time together that he’d be able to gauge my moods by the sound of my voice, but maybe we have.

“A little,” I admit. “I don’t want to disappoint anyone. Not that I thought we’d be this overnight smash hit, and our listeners really have been amazing. I guess I just crave validation,” I half joke in a way I hope sounds self-deprecating.

Dominic’s quiet for a few moments, and I curse the dark. Not that I’d be able to read his expression anyway. “I wasn’t going to say anything unless it seemed like it was going to happen, but . . .” He takes a breath. “A friend of mine from undergrad, he works in PR with Saffron Shaw.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“She’s on that CW show, Oceanside?”

“I’ve heard of it.” I’ve watched a couple episodes. Fine, seven. “One of those shows where all the actors are in their midtwenties playing teens?”

“James Marsters was in his midthirties when he started on Buffy,” Dominic points out.

“Fair. Wait, how have we not talked about whether you’re on Team Angel or Team Spike?”

“Team Riley.”

“Please leave.”

He laughs. “Just wanted to test you. I’m Team Angel to my core. The romantic in me, I guess.”

Huh. I never would have pegged him as the romantic type. I confirm for him that I’m on the same team.

“Saffron has like, this rabid fan base,” Dominic says, “and she does this thing on social media where she recommends something to her followers every week, a show or a book or something. My friend thought Saffron would be into The Ex Talk, so he was going to try to get it to her, but I haven’t heard anything.”

“That’s—really awesome of you,” I say. He cares about the show. It shouldn’t come as a shock to me, and yet it does. He wants it to succeed as much as I do. “Thanks for doing that.”

“I wanted to be able to surprise you with it,” he says, and then wryly adds: “So thanks for ruining that.”

I want to swat his arm, but I’m worried I’d miss and dump what I assume is fuchsia liquid into his lap instead, so I keep my hands to myself.

After we polish off the pomegranate soup, Nathaniel returns with the final course. “These are handcrafted dark chocolate cherry truffles.” He pauses. “We always encourage the couple to feed each other.”

“Oh, we’re not a couple,” I say.

“You must have the full experience,” he insists.

“We should do what the man says,” Dominic says, and louder, as though making sure the mic catches this: “Let the record show that Shay Goldstein did not want my hands anywhere near her mouth.”

“I have no problem with your hands near my mouth. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever put there,” I say sweetly.

“Too racy for public radio,” Dominic says with a cluck of his tongue.

“Shay, go ahead,” Nathaniel says, sounding as though he’s trying to hold in a laugh.

My hand stumbles around on the table before I find one of the truffles. It’s bite-size but probably deathly rich. “The airplane is preparing for landing,” I say as I bring it up to where I imagine Dominic’s mouth is.

“Ah, yes, nothing more romantic than imagining you’re feeding a picky child,” he says, and I must press the chocolate into the side of his face because he adds, “Runway’s a little to the left.”

Carefully, I maneuver it across his stubbled cheek and over to his mouth. There. He parts his lips to take a small bite, his teeth grazing my fingers. And oh my god, that is a feeling I’ve never before experienced during dinner. His lips are so smooth, contrasted with the roughness of his cheek, and I can feel the chocolate melting on my fingertips.