On our third date, he ordered a medium-rare steak.
It arrived completely overcooked.
He looked disappointed for half a second.
Then he ate every bite.
“Your steak is wrong,” I whispered.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s practically gray.”
“It’s still good.”
When the waiter asked whether everything was okay, Owen smiled.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
After the waiter walked away, I stared at him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugged.
“It wasn’t worth making a problem.”
At first, I thought it was sweet.
It took me nearly two years to realize it wasn’t
