Chapter 12
Silas
The week passes like a book I don't want to put down.
He kisses me mid-sentence. Stops talking about the protagonist's character arc, grabs the front of my jacket, and kisses me hard. Then pulls back, blinks, says "sorry, I got excited," and disappears inside before I can respond.
My lion hasn't stopped purring since.
Thursday: the café, the booth, the break. Robin watches us with the satisfied expression of a man who takes credit for everything. Devin fixes the espresso machine again, something with the pressure gauge this time, and Robin gives him another raise.
"He's paying me too much," Devin says during his break, frowning at his phone.
"He's paying you what you're worth."
"Nobody's worth this much for making coffee."
"You also fix the equipment. And reorganized his inventory. And created a filing system for his supplier invoices."
"That was just because I was bored."
"You reorganized his entire business because you were bored. That's worth the raise."
He ducks his head, pleased and embarrassed, and I think about how long it's going to take to teach him that he's allowed to be valued. That people can pay him what he's worth without it being charity. That Robin gives him raises because Devin earns them, not because Robin pities him.
A long time, probably. This is the kind of rewiring that takes years, and I find myself thinking in years for the first time. Not weeks, not months. Years. With him. The thought doesn't scare me the way it should.
Friday afternoon. I'm in the garage trying to fix a carburetor and definitely not watching the clock. It's 4:17. One hour and forty-three minutes until I pick up Devin.
"You've checked the time six times in the last ten minutes," Jason observes from where he's working on his bike.
"I'm working."
"You've been holding that same bolt for five minutes."
I look down. He's right. Fuck.
"Nervous about your date?" Knox asks from the garage doorway, not even trying to hide his smirk.
"It's dinner. Not a big deal."
"Another date with the cute barista who leaves you dragon book recommendations," Vaughn adds from under a truck. "Totally not a big deal."
"How do you even know about — never mind. Robin."
"Robin tells us everything," Jason confirms. "He's invested. We're all invested."
"There's a betting pool," Ezra says from his stool near the garage entrance, where he's doing something on his laptop that's probably the bar's books but might be the betting pool spreadsheet.
"On what?"
"Various things." Knox grins. "When you'll bring him home."
"Already did. Saturday lunch."
"For a meal. Not for the night."
"Knox —"
"I'm just observing. The spare room's available if you need more privacy. Nico moved his things into Ezra's room yesterday."
Nico, who's right there beside Ezra, doesn't look up from his laptop.
"So," Vaughn slides out from under the truck, "where are you taking him?"
"Angelo's."
"Good choice," Jason says. "The carbonara is transcendent."
"You said that about Lucia's too."
"Lucia's was transcendent in a different way. Angelo's carbonara will make him moan."
"Could you not phrase it like that?"
"I phrased it accurately." Jason wipes his hands on a rag. "What are you wearing?"
"Clothes."
"Specifically?"
"The blue button-down."
"Boring," Robin announces, appearing in the garage doorway with a tray of something that smells like chocolate. "Wear the green henley."
"You told me to save the green henley for something important."
"Plans change. He's had a whole week to build his tolerance. He can handle it now."
"He couldn't handle it last time."
"Last time he stared at your chest for forty-five seconds without blinking. That's not 'couldn't handle it,' that's 'successfully overwhelmed.' There's a difference."
"Robin —"
"The green henley is a strategic asset, Silas. Deploy it."
Knox catches my eye. Shrugs. "Wear whatever you want. It's your date."
"Thank you."
"The henley's better though," Knox adds, and everyone nods.
I escape to shower before they can form a committee.
The apartment above the bar is small. My room, the bathroom, the hallway that connects to Knox's door and the spare room that's now officially empty since Nico decamped.
The building wasn't designed for this many people.
Knox has been talking to a contractor about the five acres.
It's not just thinking out loud anymore.
There are blueprints, Nico pulled permits, Vaughn cleared the back fence line. Houses. Real houses, for all of us.
Including, possibly, eventually, a room for someone new to our pride.
I'm getting ahead of myself. We're just dating. I haven't told him I love him. I haven't even said the word mate out loud, though my lion has been saying it for two weeks straight, a constant low frequency under everything I do.
Shower. Shave twice. Brush teeth twice. Stand in front of the closet.
The blue button-down is nice. Safe. Appropriate for a nice date.
The green henley is comfortable. Makes my eyes look good, according to Robin. Made Devin stare at my chest without blinking. I put on the green henley.
My phone buzzes. Nico: Good luck tonight. Ezra says you're nervous.
Me: I'm not nervous.
Nico: Sure. Have fun tonight. Devin seems good for you.
Good for me. Not sweet, not cute. Good for me. That's the highest compliment Nico gives. The man who walked away from a six-figure corporate job because it was destroying the wrong people, who rebuilt his entire life around doing work that mattered. He doesn't use words carelessly.
At 5:25, I head to the café. Robin's closing up for the evening. Through the pass-through window, I can hear him talking to Devin.
"Stop torturing that espresso machine. It's clean. Beyond clean. You could perform surgery on it."
"Just making sure everything's ready for tomorrow."
"Dev, everything's been ready for tomorrow since four o'clock. Silas is waiting for you. Go clock out."
I lean against the counter to wait. Devin comes out from the back, sees me, and his face goes soft and bright at the same time, like I'm something wonderful instead of just a thirty-two-year-old shifter who reads too much.
He's wearing a black henley I haven't seen before. Robin must have given it to him, because it fits too well to be from Devin's wardrobe of three shirts. It makes his skin look luminous and his eyes impossibly dark.
"Hi," he says, soft and pleased. Then his eyes catch on my shirt. "Oh no."
"What?"
"The green henley. Robin said you weren't supposed to —"
"Robin says a lot of things."
"I can't look directly at you. It's like staring at the sun."
"That's dramatic."
"You're devastating and you know it." He's trying to be annoyed but he's smiling, and the combination makes my chest ache in a way I don't want to fix. "Give me a minute. I need to finish clocking out and also recalibrate my ability to function."
"Take your time."
Robin appears behind the counter. Sees my shirt. Points at me. "I told you."
"You told me to wear it."
"I told you to wear it knowing it would destroy him. There's a difference." He grins. "Have fun tonight. Both of you."
"Goodbye, Robin."
"Be safe! Make good choices! Or bad ones! Whatever makes you happy!"
Devin reappears, jacket on, bag over his shoulder. "Ready."
"Your boss is insane."
"He's the best person I know." Devin takes my hand, casually, easily, like holding hands is something he's been doing his whole life instead of something that started ten days ago. "Where to?"
"Angelo's. The carbonara is apparently going to make you —" I stop. Jason's phrasing. "It's good. Jason recommended it."
"Jason's recommendations haven't let me down yet. That leftover pasta was amazing."
We walk to my bike. I hand him the spare helmet, his helmet, the one that lives on the left handlebar and has never been used by anyone else. He puts it on with the easy familiarity of someone who's ridden with me enough times that the routine is established.
His arms settle around my waist. His chin rests against my shoulder. The warmth of him against my back.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Always," he says.
Angelo's is north of town, past the river. The ride takes fifteen minutes, and Devin uses every one of them. Arms tight, body pressed close, his hands splayed against my stomach in a way that's not innocent. By the time we park, I'm half-hard and trying to think about carburetors.
"You're doing that on purpose," I say when he climbs off.
"Doing what?" Complete innocence. The customer-service face, except weaponized.
"Your hands."
"Were holding on. For safety."
"Your hands were under my shirt."
"Was the shirt in the way? Sorry about that.
" He's grinning, and I realize with a jolt that this is Devin flirting.
Not the shy, accidental version from the first week.
The deliberate, confident version that's emerged over the past few days, the one that knows I want him and is starting to enjoy the power of that knowledge.
It's devastating.
Angelo's is small and warm and smells like butter and fresh bread. The hostess leads us to a corner booth, tight, intimate, clearly for couples. Our thighs press together under the table and neither of us makes any effort to create distance.
"Wine?" the waiter asks.
"Just water," Devin says.
"Water's perfect," I agree.
The waiter leaves and I shift slightly, my leg pressing more firmly against his. The heat between us has been building all week, every library morning and café afternoon adding another layer, and tonight it feels like something that can't be contained much longer.
"How was the rest of your shift?" I ask, but my thumb is already finding his wrist under the table, tracing circles over his pulse point.
"Good. Busy. I reorganized the syrups again."
"Again?"
"By viscosity this time." His breath catches when my thumb presses against his pulse. "Robin says I have a problem."
"Robin's not wrong."
"Don't take his side." But Devin's smiling, and his hand turns over so his palm is up, inviting more contact. I trace the lines of his palm, life line, heart line, the calluses from the espresso machine.
The food comes. Jason was right. The carbonara is extraordinary. Rich, creamy, the egg perfectly emulsified, the guanciale crisp. Devin makes a sound on the first bite that goes straight through me.
"Oh," he says. "Oh, this is — Silas, this is —"
"I know."
"Jason said it would make me —" He stops. Flushes. "What exactly did Jason say?"
"He said it would make you moan."
"That's — I didn't —"
"You did. It was very quiet. I have good hearing."
"Shifter hearing is cheating."
"Shifter hearing is a feature." I lean closer. "Means I hear everything. Every sound you make."
The implication lands. His eyes darken. "Everything?"
"Everything."
We eat. We talk. Books, always books first, the safe ground.
He's finished Piranesi and wants to talk about the ending, about the nature of memory and identity and what it means to be kind in a world that doesn't reward it.
Then wider. Toby's book club, the romance novel debate that's apparently ongoing via text, the illustrated edition of The Hobbit that Margaret let him handle with gloves in the rare books room.
"She let you touch the illustrated Tolkien?"
"With cotton gloves. And supervision. And three separate warnings about the binding."
"Margaret doesn't let just anyone touch the rare books."
"She likes me." He says it with a little wonder, like being liked is still a novelty. "She said I handle books the way they deserve to be handled."
"You do."
"Is that a compliment or an observation?"
"Both."
He smiles. The real one. The full brightness. And under the table, his hand finds my thigh, rests there with intent.
"Silas."
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking about something all week."
"What?"
"You. This. Where it's going." His hand tightens slightly on my thigh. "I want to go there. If you want."
My heart rate doubles. "Define 'there.'"
"Your place. Tonight." He meets my eyes.
Clear, certain, no trace of the customer-service mask.
"I want to be with you. Not just reading together, not just kissing goodnight.
I want —" He drops his voice, leans closer.
"I want everything you offered me on that sidewalk before you stopped. Except this time, don't stop."
"Dev —"
"I know what I want. I know who I want. I'm not confused and I'm not overwhelmed and I'm not too young to decide." His voice is steady, his eyes level. "Are you going to make me ask twice?"
"No," I say, and my voice comes out wrecked. "No, you don't have to ask twice."
"Good." He flags the waiter. "Just the check, please."
The waiter brings the check. I pay. We leave. The night air is cold and Devin is warm against my side and every nerve in my body is electric with what's about to happen.
At the bike, he catches my arm. Turns me toward him. Kisses me. Not the soft quick kisses of the past week, not the desperate heat of the wall. Something new. Deliberate and deep, his hands fisted in the green henley, pulling me down to his height.
"Take me home," he says against my mouth.
"It's not —" My brain, my stupid responsible brain, tries one more time. "Are you sure?"
"Silas." His hands tighten in my shirt. "I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life. Take. Me. Home."
I take him home.