Chapter 10 #2
"I'm not done." He tears off another piece of bread. His hands have stopped shaking. "I've been in six foster homes. I've had people offer me safety my entire life, caseworkers, foster parents, shelter staff. You know what I've never had? Someone who cared what I thought about Eragon."
The bread basket sits between us. He's looking at me with an expression I haven't seen before. Not the brightness of book talk, not the mask, not the vulnerability of the overlook. Harder. Clearer. The expression of someone who knows exactly what they want and is tired of being told they don't.
"I wanted you to kiss me on that sidewalk.
I wanted you to not stop. Not because you're safe.
Because you're you. Because you read my favorite book because I asked you to and then you texted me at midnight about it.
Because you bring me vending machine coffee that costs seventy-five cents and tastes like motor oil and you do it every single morning.
Because you counted twenty-two minutes while I slept in a library chair and told me it was a few.
" The hardness softens, just slightly. "Nobody's ever watched me sleep and lied about it to protect my dignity. "
The waiter approaches. Devin orders without looking at the menu, "Whatever pasta is your favorite," and the waiter, to his credit, doesn't blink. I order the same. The waiter leaves.
"So," Devin says. "Can we eat dinner now? Like two people on a date? Without you deciding I'm too fragile to know my own mind?"
"Yeah," I say. "We can do that."
"Good." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. His grip is steady. Warm. Deliberate. "And Silas?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you want to stop kissing me, don't."
The candle flickers between us. His hand in mine.
His eyes clear and certain across a table in a restaurant that smells like garlic and bread, and I think: this one.
Not my lion this time. Me. Thirty-two-year-old Silas who reads fantasy novels and avoids people and followed a guy home in the rain because of a smiley face on receipt paper.
This one.
"I can do that," I say.
He smiles. Not the full brightness. We're not there yet, not after tonight. But something real. Something that says we survived the first hard thing and we're still sitting here.
The pasta comes. It's extraordinary. We eat, and we talk, and the talking is easy the way it always is with us once we stop being afraid.
Books first, always books first, the safe ground, the shared language.
Then wider. His favorite movie (The Princess Bride, which is perfect).
My worst habit (reading in the bathtub, which has cost me three paperbacks).
The time he tried to cook in the shelter kitchen and set off the fire alarm.
The time I accidentally shifted in the library and Margaret pretended not to notice a lion sitting in the reference section.
"She WHAT?"
"Walked past, said 'no animals in the library, Silas,' and kept going."
"Margaret is terrifying."
"Margaret is the best person I know."
"That's high praise from you. You don't like that many people."
"I like the right people."
He looks at me across the candlelight. "Yeah. You do."
We split dessert, tiramisu, because Devin's never had it and the sound he makes on the first bite is obscene enough that I have to look away.
"Oh my god," he says. "This is — Silas, why has no one told me about tiramisu?"
"You've never had tiramisu?"
"I've never had a lot of things." He says it simply, without self-pity. A fact.
"We'll fix that," I say, and mean it in a way that goes well beyond dessert.
The bill comes. I pay before he can see it, because I know he'll try to split it and I know he can't afford to and I don't want the money to become a thing. He narrows his eyes but doesn't argue.
Outside, the drizzle has stopped. The air is cold and clean and the streets are quiet, a small town on a Friday night, everything closed by ten except the bars and the 24-hour diner.
"Walk me home?" he asks.
"Always."
We walk. His hand finds mine without hesitation this time, no tentative brushing, no waiting for permission. He takes my hand and holds it like it belongs to him.
Three blocks from Haven House, he stops. Turns to me.
"I said next time you want to stop kissing me, don't." He steps closer. "This is me reminding you."
He kisses me. Not the quick brave press of the overlook.
Not the desperate heat of the wall. Something in between, sure and slow and intentional, his hands on my chest, rising to my shoulders, curling around the back of my neck.
He takes his time. He sets the pace. And I let him, because this is what I was afraid of losing.
Not the heat, but the choice. His choice.
Made clearly, without desperation, without a wall behind him or alcohol in his system or the frantic energy of a birthday rescue.
Just Devin. Choosing me. On a quiet street with his hand on my neck and his mouth on mine and nothing between us but the cold air and the certainty that this is exactly where we both want to be.
When he pulls back, he's smiling. The real one. The full brightness.
"Goodnight, Silas."
"Goodnight, Dev."
"See you at the library?"
"Six-forty-five. With your coffee."
"Vending machine motor oil?"
"Only the finest."
He laughs. Walks to Haven House. Punches in the code. Turns at the door and waves, a small thing, just his hand raised, but it feels like a promise.
My phone buzzes as I'm getting on my bike.
I'm glad I went to dinner with you.
Me too. Goodnight, Devin. :)
The smiley face. I've never used a smiley face in a text in my life. But it's our thing now, apparently, and my lion purrs the whole ride home.