Chapter 8 #2
"I'm thirty-two and I spend most of my time reading fantasy novels and avoiding people."
"But by choice. Not because you don't know how to be a person."
I turn to look at him fully. "You know how to be a person. You're just not interested in being the kind of person Tyler thinks you should be."
"Maybe."
"Definitely. The person who recommends books and makes perfect coffee and reads for hours and falls asleep in library chairs because it's the one place he feels safe enough —" I stop. Too much. I saw too much on Wednesday and now it's leaking out.
But Devin doesn't flinch. "You knew I fell asleep."
"You said a few minutes."
"It was a few minutes."
"It was twenty-two." No point lying about it now. "And I'm glad you felt safe enough."
He's quiet for a long moment. The wind comes off the lake, cold and clean.
"Does the age thing bother you?" he asks. "That's why you left today. After Tyler —"
"I don't want to be the creepy older guy."
"You're not. Creepy older guys don't bring you vending machine coffee every morning and leave book recommendations on your library chair at 6 AM." He pauses. "Besides, I've always liked older guys. They actually read real books."
"Devastating criteria."
"I have standards." He shivers harder. The wind is picking up and he's in nothing but that blue shirt.
"Come here." I move back to the bike, lean against it, and open my jacket. After a moment's hesitation, he steps into the space I've made and I wrap the jacket around both of us as much as I can. His back against my chest. His head tipping back against my shoulder.
"Better?"
"Yeah." He fits. Perfectly, impossibly, he fits. "Silas?"
"Hmm?"
"This week. The books, the notes, the mornings. That wasn't just about books. Right?"
"No. It wasn't just about books."
"Okay. Good." A beat. "Because if you'd said it was just about books I was going to be really embarrassed about how many times I reread your notes before bed."
"How many times?"
"Not telling you that."
"More than five?"
"Not answering."
"More than ten?"
"This conversation is over."
I laugh. He shivers against me, not from cold this time. I can feel his heartbeat through his back, fast and steady.
"Friday," I say. "After your shift. Would you want to get dinner? Real dinner, not dive bar peanuts."
"Like a date?"
"Exactly like a date."
"Yes." Then, softer: "I've never actually been on one. A real date."
"Neither have I."
"Really?"
"I've been on first dates. But none of them felt real. None of them started with a note in a pastry box."
He turns in my arms so he's facing me. Close enough that I can see the reflection of city lights in his eyes. Close enough to count the freckles on his nose that I've been pretending not to catalog all week.
"Happy birthday, Devin."
"Best one I've ever had." He means it. The weight of that, the twenty other birthdays in foster homes and on couches and in shelters that weren't this, weren't standing on a hill with someone who reads his favorite books and brings him coffee, settles over both of us.
He stretches up and kisses me. Quick, soft, barely there before he pulls back, blushing furiously even in the dark.
"Sorry, I —"
I cup his face gently, thumb stroking his cheek. "Can I kiss you properly?"
"Please."
So I do. Slow and careful, letting him set the pace. His hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer. He kisses like he reads, all in, completely present, nothing held back. When we break apart, he's breathing hard.
"Okay, that was way better than birthday drinks," he says.
I laugh, pressing my forehead to his. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'd take this over Murphy's every day for the rest of my life."
"That can be arranged."
We stay like that for a while, him warming up against me, both of us looking at the lights.
His phone buzzes occasionally, Tyler, but he ignores it.
My lion is rumbling, low and constant, a purr that starts in the chest and doesn't stop.
Not a roar. Not a claim. Just a steady warmth that says: this one.
I'm listening.
"I should probably go back," he says eventually, not moving.
"I can take you wherever you'd like."
He tenses slightly. I feel it through the jacket, through the warmth between us. The hesitation.
"You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to," I say.
"I know." He's quiet for a moment. "It's a shelter. On Madison. Haven House."
He said it. Out loud, to me, without me asking. I could tell him I already knew, the first night, the rain, following him home. But that's not what he needs right now. He needs this to be his choice, his timing, his story to tell.
"Okay."
"I'm saving for an apartment. A few more weeks and I'll have enough for the deposit."
"That's good. Having a plan."
"You don't think it's —" He swallows. "You don't think less of me?"
"No." I tighten my arms around him. "I think you're twenty-one years old and you have a job and a plan and a timeline and you read better books than anyone I've ever met. That's not less. That's a lot."
He turns his face into my neck and breathes there for a moment. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright but he's not crying. Holding it.
"Can I take you home?" I ask.
"To the shelter?"
"To wherever you want to go."
"The shelter's fine. You can take me to the actual door. I don't need to hide it from you."
The ride back is different. Devin's relaxed against me, his grip comfortable rather than desperate.
His arms around my waist feel like they belong there.
When we pull up outside Haven House, the rainbow flag is illuminated by the porch light, and the building looks warm and decent and still not enough for him.
He climbs off, hands back the helmet.
"Thank you," he says. "For the rescue. And the ride. And..." He looks at the building behind him, then back at me. "And for not making it weird."
"It's not weird."
"It kind of is. You're in your thirties and a lion shifter and I live in a youth shelter."
"And you're the person who gave me dragons and told me Guy Gavriel Kay would destroy me and you were right about both. That's the part that matters."
He kisses me again, quicker this time, braver, like he's practicing something he wants to get good at.
"Friday?" he says.
"Friday."
"Goodnight, Silas."
"Goodnight, Dev."
He punches in the code, disappears inside. I wait until a light comes on in the third-floor window. My phone buzzes:
Made it. Thank you for the best birthday I've ever had.
Then, a moment later:
Also I finished chapter 12 three days ago and didn't tell you because I wanted to have something to talk about on our date.
I stare at that message and laugh out loud in the parking lot of a youth shelter at midnight on a Thursday.
You held back a chapter 12 reaction for strategic dating purposes when you didn't even know if I'd say yes?
I have layers.
Clearly. Goodnight, Devin.
Goodnight. :)
The smiley face. Always the smiley face.
I ride home through empty streets, the October air cold on my face, and my lion purrs the whole way. Not a roar. Not a claim. Just a constant, steady warmth that says: this one.
Friday. I have a date on Friday with a twenty-one-year-old who lives in a shelter and loves books and held back his chapter 12 reaction because he wanted something to talk about at dinner.
I can work with that.