Chapter 11
Devin
Saturday morning. I wake up smiling, which is so unfamiliar it takes me a second to figure out why my face is doing that.
Right. Last night. Lucia's. Pasta and tiramisu and candles and Silas's hand across the table and the kiss on the quiet street and the walk to Haven House where he didn't try to come in and didn't make it weird and just said goodnight like a person who understood that goodnight could be enough.
Tyler's already awake, sitting cross-legged on his bed, eating a granola bar and watching me with the focus of a nature documentary narrator observing something rare.
"You're smiling," he says.
"No I'm not."
"You're smiling in your sleep. I've been watching for ten minutes. It's unsettling."
"That's creepy, Tyler."
"What's creepy is you going from an emotional flatline to Disney princess in one week.
" He throws the granola bar wrapper at me.
"Spill. What happened last night? I came home at eleven and you were asleep with your phone on your face.
Like, literally on your face. The screen was on a text from someone named Silas with a smiley face. "
I pull the blanket over my head.
"Oh no you don't." Tyler yanks it back. "You went on a DATE. An actual date. With the book guy. The hot quiet shifter book guy. And you came home and fell asleep smiling at your phone like a romcom heroine and you are going to TELL ME EVERYTHING."
"We had dinner."
"And?"
"Italian. Lucia's. On Pine."
"AND?"
"The pasta was really good."
Tyler throws a pillow at me. "Devin, I swear to god —"
"He walked me home. We kissed. It was nice."
"Nice. He says nice." Tyler clutches his chest dramatically. "Dev, was it like... nice nice? Or was it 'I'm going to replay this moment for the rest of my natural life' nice?"
The second one. Definitely the second one. The way Silas's hand felt on my jaw. The way he let me set the pace. The way he said goodnight and the word felt like a promise instead of an ending.
"It was good," I say, and even I can hear the softness in my voice.
Tyler goes quiet for a second. Actually quiet, which never happens. Then: "Dev. You really like him."
"Yeah."
"Like, really really."
"Yeah."
"Okay." He nods slowly. "Okay, that's — that's huge. For you. That's really huge." He's trying to be serious, I can tell, but it only lasts about three seconds before: "SO WHEN'S THE NEXT DATE?"
"I don't know. We didn't —"
My phone buzzes.
Silas: Good morning. How's the book?
Like I read anything last night. Like I did anything last night except lie in bed replaying every second of dinner and the walk and the kiss and the way he tasted like tiramisu and said my name.
Good morning. Haven't read yet. Just woke up.
Late for you. Must have been a good night.
The best.
A pause. Then: Can I see you today? Not a date. Just... reading. Library opens at nine on Saturdays.
Tyler's reading over my shoulder. "SAY YES."
"Tyler —"
"SAY YES RIGHT NOW OR I'M TEXTING HIM FOR YOU."
Yeah. I'd like that.
Good. I'll bring coffee.
Vending machine motor oil?
Only the finest.
I put my phone down. Tyler is vibrating.
"You have a BOYFRIEND," he says. "A hot shifter boyfriend who brings you coffee and reads with you and takes you on dates and —"
"He's not my boyfriend. It's been one date."
"One date, a week of love notes, and you just made plans to spend Saturday reading together before your shift. That's a boyfriend, Dev. That's a full-blown relationship by your standards."
He's not wrong. By my standards, which include zero previous relationships, zero previous dates, and a lifetime of reading about love without experiencing it, this is everything.
"I need to shower," I say.
"Yeah you do. Use the good soap. The one Melissa gave me."
"I'm not using your girlfriend's soap."
"She's not my — okay, she's kind of my — look, the soap smells like cedar and it'll drive your book man crazy. Trust me."
"How do you know what drives him crazy?"
"He's a shifter, Dev. Scent is like their whole thing."
He tosses the bottle to me and I catch it. It does smell good. Warm and woody, the kind of thing that reminds me of the way Silas smells naturally. Sun-warmed cedar.
"Fine," I say. "But if this is weird, I'm blaming you."
"Nothing about this is weird. Everything about this is perfect. Go shower. Your man is waiting."
My man. The words sit in my chest, warm and terrifying and new.
* * *
The library is quiet on Saturday mornings. The seniors don't come until ten, the families until eleven. It's just Margaret at the desk and the hush of a building full of books waiting to be read.
Silas is in his corner. He looks up when I walk in and his face softens, that almost-smile warming into something less guarded than usual. Like last night changed the calibration, shifted the default from guarded to glad.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey." He nods at the table between our sections. Two vending machine coffees. A book I've never seen, Piranesi by Susanna Clarke, with a note sticking out of it.
Another book. Another note. The collection grows.
I pick it up, read the note: This one's strange and beautiful and unlike anything you've read. Like someone I know. — S :)
A smiley face. He used a smiley face. The man who communicates in strategic grunts and book recommendations used a smiley face on a handwritten note and I'm going to die right here in the reference section.
"Thank you," I say, holding the book against my chest like it's precious. Because it is.
"Let me know what you think."
We read. Saturday morning, vending machine coffee, the quiet between us full of last night and every night before it. His foot finds mine under the table. My foot stays against his. We read until 11:30 without talking and it's the best morning of my life.
At 11:45, I close my book reluctantly. "I should get to the café."
"I'll walk you over."
We cross through the library to the café side. Robin's already prepping for the lunch rush. He takes one look at my face and grins.
"Good night?"
"The best."
"Good morning?"
"Even better."
Robin hands me my apron. "Silas, your booth's open. Try not to stare at my barista so hard the customers notice."
"I don't stare."
"You stare. It's fine. It's good for business. The regulars think you're a romance novel."
The shift passes the way Saturday shifts do.
Busy at noon, steady through the afternoon, the familiar rhythm of steam and pour and tamp and pull.
Silas is in his booth with Piranesi and a coffee, and every time I look over he's there.
Present. Not going anywhere. During my break we sit across from each other and read, feet touching under the table, and the silent part is better than most conversations I've ever had.
At six, I clock out. Clean up. Robin packs the pastry bag, extra full.
"Come to the bar tonight," Robin says, boxing up the last of the croissants. "Jason's cooking. Saturday dinner is a thing, a recent thing, but still. The whole pride shows up. You should come."
I glance at Silas, who's closing his book at the booth. He catches my eye and nods, just barely.
"Would you want to?" he asks, crossing to the counter. "It's casual. Just food and people and probably Robin embarrassing both of us."
The pride. All of them. Knox and Vaughn and Jason and Ezra and Nico and Toby and Robin. The people Silas calls family. The family he's inviting me to see.
"You don't have to," he adds quickly. "It's a lot. I know crowds aren't —"
"I'd love to."
He blinks. "Really?"
"They're your family. And Robin already knows everything about us, so it's not like it'll be a surprise."
"Robin knows everything about everyone. It's disturbing."
"It's endearing."
"That's because he likes you. Wait until he starts stress-baking at you."
We walk to the bar together. Not holding hands, we're in public, in daylight, and I'm not sure where those boundaries are yet. But close. Close enough that our shoulders brush and neither of us corrects the distance.
From the outside the bar it looks like every other building around, brick, two stories, a garage attached to one side.
But inside it's warm and loud and smells like garlic and bread and home.
The bar itself is old oak, polished by decades of use, and behind it the kitchen is open and chaotic and Jason is cooking something that makes my stomach growl audibly
"That's a good sign," Jason says, pointing his spatula at my stomach. "Means you have taste."
"Jason," Silas says warningly.
"What? I'm complimenting his digestive system."
Knox is behind the bar. Not serving, just existing there, the way I've gathered he exists everywhere: quietly, with authority. He nods at me. One nod. I nod back.
"That's practically a speech for Knox," Robin says, dropping his bag of café leftovers on the bar. "Welcome to Saturday dinner, Dev."
Vaughn is at the pool table, not playing, just leaning against it with a beer. He gives me a wave that's halfway between friendly and assessing. Toby is on one of the bar stools, reading, an actual romance novel with a shirtless man on the cover, which he shows no embarrassment about whatsoever.
"The good ones have actual plot," he tells me when he catches me looking. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"I know," I say. "I've read all of Courtney Milan's catalogue."
Toby's face lights up. "You have?"
"Twice."
"Oh, we're keeping him," Toby announces to the room. "Silas, we're keeping this one."
Ezra and Nico are side by side at the bar, laptops closed. Nico looks up long enough to say "hello, Devin" with the precise politeness of a man who learned social interaction from a business etiquette manual, and Ezra raises his tea in greeting.
"Sit anywhere," Silas says.
I sit at the bar, next to Toby, because Toby is reading and that makes him safe. Silas sits beside me, close, his knee against mine under the bar.