Chapter Thirty-One – Fawn #3
“I’ll make it up to you, baby . . .”
“You better,” I say, trying to sound tough. “But I can’t help notice that’s twice you’ve called me baby.” My tone lowers, and I wear the biggest smile, trying not to blush at my new nickname.
He pushes his nose against mine before we kiss, soft at first, then a little bit firmer. It’s sweet, the kind that says thanks for not killing me, but then Dylan crashes into us like a hyperactive golden retriever.
“I’m coming in,” he says, pulling us into a giant group hug. His shoulder bumps Torin, and suddenly, I find myself snugged up between them.
Dylan’s embrace tightens. “That was fucking badass, princess.” He clears his throat and puts on a fake serious voice. “But it really messed me up emotionally. I need some comfort too.”
“You didn’t nearly lose your fucking balls,” Torin says.
Dylan hums thoughtfully. “No, but you almost did, and that was pretty stressful for me, since I happen to be your best friend.”
I start laughing into Torin’s chest, the three of us squishing into this enormous, awkward hug. For a moment, the world exists only in laughter and the warmth of my men.
I should hate Torin for playing an evil game like that.
Honestly, any sane person would. But standing here, wrapped in his arms, with Dylan squeezing us both like he’s trying to merge us into one person, I can’t.
I just . . . can’t. There was trust, full-blown, stupid, reckless trust, and that softens every part of me that wants to be upset. It’s romantic in the most unhinged way.
****
The scores are in. Dylan came in last, I came second, and, of course, Torin came first.
You’d think he won the Olympics with how smug he looks, chin tilted just slightly higher every time I glance his way.
Now, we’re huddled in the little diner next door, the kind with comfy, squeaky red booths and the juke box that hasn’t worked since the nineties.
Dylan is downing a pepperoni pizza while Torin and I eat hamburgers and fries.
Torin leans back into the booth, catching Dylan’s gaze with that obnoxious smile.
“So, Dyl, how does it feel to lose to your princess?” He bites right into his burger, like he’s been waiting to say that line all evening.
I glance down and see a piece of lettuce poking out, as if it’s trying to make a break for it. I raise an eyebrow and start pulling on it, peeling off the lettuce and flicking it down onto the plate.
Dylan begins to speak, but suddenly, he stops himself when he notices what I’m doing. “I wasn’t paying attention, that’s all—” His words trail off. “Princess . . . don’t you like lettuce? I can get you one without. Let me—”
He reaches across the table for my plate, but I pull it back toward me. “No, no, I do like lettuce. I just—” Ugh. This is going to sound stupid. “I just don’t like it sticking out of my burger. I know it’s a weird habit.”
I’m ready for the teasing, but Torin and Dylan simply look at each other instead. Their smiles are soft and purely amused in the sweetest way.
“It’s so freaking cute,” Dylan says.
“It’s not cute. It’s just a thing I’ve always done.” My cheeks heat up immediately.
Torin nudges my shoulder with his. “Nah. It’s cute. Too late. Official ruling.”
“Princess, you’re literally out here throwing hatchets between legs like a badass assassin and then getting shy because of lettuce,” Dylan teases.
Sitting here with the two of them, food steaming, laughter overlapping, their eyes on me, I realize something simple: I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
But before I can fully bask in the moment, a sudden, sharp, hot stab of pain blooms low in my womb — fast and unexpected.
No, no, no.
Not another cyst rupture. Not while I’m on a date with my men.
My body tenses on instinct. I fold in on myself just a fraction, one hand hovering near my abdomen without meaning to.
“Ow . . .” slips out before I can stop it.
“You okay?” Dylan asks, concern slicing through his expression like a switch was flipped.
“Yeah, just a little bit of pain,” I reply, but luckily for me, it’s already easing up. “It’s gone already. I’m all good.”
From my peripheral, I can tell Torin is searching my face to see if I’m lying.
Dylan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I looked up what PCOS is, by the way. I wanted to know everything about it and how I can help.”
How did I get so lucky? He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to care that much, but he does.
“Cysts, right?” he continues, furrowing his brow, trying to remember all the details he read. “Which means you have irregular . . . uh, periods.”
I’m impressed. Even Torin stops chewing his burger for a moment.
“You’re right,” I continue, nodding. “I get maybe five periods a year. If that.” I nudge a fry into my mouth. “It comes with a bunch of symptoms, like acne, fatigue, and weight problems. I was heavy for a bit. I lost the weight, and that’s when I earned my stretch marks.”
Torin says nothing, eating but listening so intensely, my chest pangs.
Dylan tilts his head. I can tell thoughts are buzzing behind his eyes. “It also comes with fertility issues, right?” His tone turns softer. “Did you want children?”
His question affects me more than I realize. Not because it’s awkward, but because it’s a lot deeper than I thought, especially in this small diner with its grease-stained floor and the smell of melted cheese.
“I’m not infertile, but truthfully . . .” I pause, looking down at my plate. “No. I don’t want children, not while the world is in this current state. Yeah, I’ve got problems with my ovaries, but at least my babies are safe inside me. No one can harm them, you know?”
Dylan’s eyes soften immediately. He nods, slow and understanding. “Damn, princess. That’s heavy, but I understand. I didn’t mean to . . . Uh, fuck, I wasn’t trying to press anything. I just—”
Now he’s overthinking. I reach across the table and squeeze his hand, “No, it’s fine. Honestly. Thank you for looking up PCOS. It means a lot.”
Torin clears his throat softly, and when I meet his gaze, the warmth of it is so potent, it takes me aback. He places a hand on my knee beneath the table — not playfully, simply his way of saying he’s there.
“I’ll do anything for you, princess,” Dylan says, flashing me a small, sweet smile that always manages to melt something deep within my chest. But he clears his throat, changing the subject. “So, uh, earlier, you talked about the nursing home, and you looked a little stressed. You all good?”
Something coils in my gut and I turn my face away before it can show any emotion. I certainly do not intend on admitting I’ve already emailed my agent, effectively begging for overseas publishing deals simply for the sake of advances.
“Fawn . . . Do you need money?” Torin says my name in that tone — knowing, too observant for his own good.
“No, I’m all good,” I lie smoothly.
Except, it’s not smooth whatsoever. I can feel my nose twitching like a rabbit.
Dylan leans closer, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t buy it. How much do you need?”
“No! Out of the question,” I say immediately, throwing my hands up. “You are not helping me. I’ll be fine.”
I reach for my drink, using it for cover, but Torin’s hand tenderly closes around mine, halting me mid-movement.
His thumb caresses my knuckles. “Fawn,” he whispers, looking at me, “you can’t lie to me .
. . well, us. When you get nervous or lie, your nose flares.
” He touches the tip of my nose gently. “And right now, it looks like you should be pulled out of a magician’s hat .
. . So, I’m going to ask you again: how much do you need? ”
My face is hot. “I’m fine,” I force out again, and I sound thoroughly dishonest. “I’ll be fine. Promise.” I will be . . . hopefully. I always land on my feet.
They both simply stare with the same determined looks, like they’re about to conspire against my very soul. And, honestly, it’s not fair how difficult it is to lie when two beautiful guys are staring at you like that.
“Anyways, enough about me,” I say, waving my hand as if I’m swatting away the heavy stuff. “I wanna hear everything about you two. Birthdays to embarrassing childhood tales, all of it.” I turn to Dylan first. “Hmmm . . . let me guess: your star sign is Leo, right?”
He freezes, mouthful of pizza, staring at me like I just performed a trick. “Yeah. My birthday is July the twenty-fifth. How did you guess?”
“That figures.” I laugh. “The lion — brave, kind, funny, confident, and romantic.”
Dylan flashes a grin and adjusts his shirt collar. “That’s me, princess.”
Turning to Torin, I squint in a mischievous way, attempting to decipher him, like the code of the ancients. “Your sign,” I whisper.
Before I can guess, Dylan cuts in with, “A fucking warning sign.”
Torin gives him the bird immediately, not looking away from me for a moment.
Placing a finger on my chin, I think aloud. “Hmm. Sagittarius?”
“Close, baby,” he says, grinning. “I’m a Scorpio. My birthday is on the first of November.”
That makes sense. Dylan’s got the golden aura, the wild, loud, king of the jungle thing. Torin’s the dark figure lurking in the shadows, quiet until you provoke him, deadly whenever he needs to be. I’m probably staring too long, because Torin raises his brows like he’s trying to read my mind.
“And I’m older than dipshit there. I’m thirty,” Torin says, pointing his chin toward Dylan.
“I didn’t know you were older . . . Gosh, I’m twenty-six.”
“He’ll be reaching retirement age soon. Run while you can, princess. You don’t wanna look after him,” Dylan teases.
“Don’t worry, I’ll stick him in a nursing home. He can keep my grandpa company,” I joke, grabbing another fry.
“Oh yeah? You sure about that, baby?” I see the look in his eyes before he closes the distance and his fingers find every ticklish spot I have.
“Torin! Stop! I’m gonna pee my pants!” I shriek, scooting backward, almost spilling my water. Dylan snorts into his cola. “Not the first time you’ve been wet today.”
My eyes shoot to his, and I give him a playful scowl.
Finally, Torin relaxes and leans down to place a soft kiss on the top of my head. It’s warm and sends a flutter right down my spine.
“Right,” I say, catching my breath and pointing at him. “Your favorite color. You go first.”
He leans back, getting comfortable, like he’s sitting on a throne. His hands go behind his head. “Green. A forest green, not whatever the hell our team color is.” He grins. “I like the trees and the grass. It’s soothing, I think.”
“Yeah, I’m with you. Forest green is a beautiful color.” I raise my brows to Dylan, waiting for his answer.
“My favorite color is neon red,” he says.
“Of course it is. Powerful and passionate. It stands out, just like you. Okay . . . favorite movies. Dylan, what’s yours?”
Torin drops his head into his hands with a groan. “Oh, this is gonna be funny.”
“What?” Dylan asks, clueless. “My favorite film is The Goonies. What’s so funny about that?”
I blink, and suddenly, I’m envisioning a miniature Dylan, small, freckle-covered, dancing around his bedroom to a Cyndi Lauper CD with a hairbrush microphone. It destroys me.
Laughing, I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to take a deep breath. “Please never change.”
“It’s a feel-good movie,” Dylan explains. “The ending’s cool. The boat drifting away, you know. And Chunk says a soppy line to Sloth. That part gets me every time.”
“It’s a good movie. I haven’t seen it in years. We’ll have to watch it soon,” I reply, glancing at Torin. “What about you? What’s your favorite movie? Let me guess: something action-packed.”
He shrugs. “Eh, I don’t like movies. They’re so fucking predictable. I like listening to old rock music and just relaxing.”
Dylan immediately lifts his hands in a mocking pose and pitches his voice high. “Oh, I’m not like everyone else. I’m mysterious and cool.”
They’re snapping at each other, trading barbs beneath their breath, teasing like two brothers who’ve been irritated with each other the entirety of their lives. I take the last sip of my drink while they argue about who’d survive the longest in a horror film.
A waitress rolls over, placing a bill in the middle of the table. Guess that’s our sign we’ve been here long enough now. Before I can get my hands on it, Dylan is already tossing money into the tray. His cell starts ringing at the same time, and he responds with a deep sigh.
Torin puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward him. “Did you have a good time?”
I look up into his eyes, smiling. “Yes. Thank you. I’ve really enjoyed this evening.”
“Yeah? Even when I tricked you into nearly cutting my balls off?” he teases.
“That wasn’t funny. Never do that again . . . jackass.”
“Never, baby,” he vows, pressing a quick kiss to the side of my head.
Dylan catches our attention by slamming his phone in exasperation. “For fuck’s sake. The Zamboni is acting up again. I have to go down to the rink and sort it out.”
“Oh, okay . . .” I reply, trying not to sound too disappointed. “I’d better get home anyway and start writing; I need to sort a few things out too.”
“You sure, princess? I don’t wanna leave you,” Dylan says, getting out of the booth. “You can crash at ours. You’re gonna be okay without Delilah there tomorrow?”
I’d love to, but the thing about reality is that it exists, and it apparently demands productivity. Also, I need to check if my agent managed to get any deals for me.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve really got to get some work done,” I reply. “And I need to be up early to see my grandpa.”
Stepping out of the booth, Dylan leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to my lips like a promise. When he withdraws, he looks at me and Torin with that mischievous grin.
“Alright, make sure you message in the group chat, and if you need us, don’t give it a second thought.
We’ll be there . . . day or night,” he says then jabs his thumb toward Torin.
“Mister Mysterious here will take you home.” He squints at Torin with a smirk.
“I’m sure you’ll have a good time on the ride home. ”
Dylan gets a shove on his way up. He merely laughs like the mischief-maker he is.
Torin’s dark eyes meet mine, and yeah . . . Dylan’s probably right.