Chapter 24 #2
Dylan’s hands slow for a moment. “You’re not what I expected,” he says quietly. “When I first... when all this started. I thought you were a monster. Pure evil. The kind of person who enjoys hurting people.”
My chest tightens. “I have hurt people. I do hurt people. That’s not going to change.”
“I know.” He turns to face me, mixing bowl still in his hands. “But you’re not... you’re more than that. You’re complicated. You buy me cookbooks and watch me bake and eat terrible scones without complaining.”
“The scones weren’t terrible.”
“They were a bit terrible.” A small smile. “My point is, I don’t know what to do with you. I had this idea of who you were, and you keep not fitting into it. You keep surprising me.”
“Good surprises or bad surprises?”
He considers the question seriously. “I don’t know yet. Both, maybe. It’s confusing.”
“I know the feeling.”
Our eyes meet across the small kitchen. The moment stretches, full of words neither of us is quite ready to say.
Then Dylan turns back to his baking, and I let out a slow breath.
Progress. Slow, fragile, but real.
By evening, I’ve made a decision.
It’s a small thing. Insignificant, really. But it feels momentous as I stand in the living room, trying to figure out how to phrase the invitation without sounding desperate or strange.
Dylan is curled up in the middle of the sofa, reading the cookbook I bought him. His feet are tucked underneath him, and he’s absently chewing on his lower lip as he studies a recipe. The domestic simplicity of the image makes my heart clench.
“Dylan.”
He looks up, those hazel eyes curious and open.
“I was thinking.” The words feel clumsy in my mouth. “Maybe we could watch a film. If you wanted. I have whiskey. We could just... relax.”
I sound like an idiot. A nervous teenager asking someone to prom, not a grown man who makes people scream for a living.
Dylan blinks at me. “A film?”
“Yes. There’s a television.” I gesture at the flatscreen I rarely use. “I don’t know what’s available, but we could find something. Or not. If you’d rather not. It was just a thought.”
Stop talking, Dante. You’re rambling. You never ramble.
But Dylan is smiling. That small, genuine smile that I’m becoming hopelessly addicted to.
“That sounds nice,” he says. “I’d like that.”
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a new wave of nervousness. He said yes. He actually said yes.
“Good. That’s... good.” I clear my throat. “I’ll get the whiskey.”
I escape to the kitchen and take a moment to compose myself, hands braced against the counter. This is ridiculous. I’ve faced down armed men without breaking a sweat. I’ve walked into rooms knowing that violence was inevitable and felt nothing but cold focus.
But the thought of sitting on a sofa and watching a film with Dylan makes my palms sweat.
I pour two generous glasses of whiskey and carry them back to the living room. Dylan has shifted position, making room. An invitation. I settle beside him, close enough that I could touch him if I reached out. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.
“What do you want to watch?” I ask, handing him his glass.
“I don’t mind. You choose.”
I flick through the options, not really seeing them. My entire awareness is focused on the man beside me. The way he cradles his whiskey glass in both hands. The way he’s angled his body slightly toward mine. The way his knee is almost, not quite, touching my thigh.
I select something at random. A thriller, apparently. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be able to focus on anything except Dylan’s presence beside me.
The film begins. Dylan takes a sip of whiskey and makes a small sound of approval.
“This is good,” he says. “I don’t usually drink whiskey, but this is nice.”
“It’s Irish, actually. I thought you might prefer it.”
He turns to look at me, surprise flickering across his features. “You bought Irish whiskey? For me?”
“I thought...” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed. “It was nothing. Just whiskey.”
“It’s not nothing.” His voice is soft. “It’s thoughtful. You’re always so thoughtful.”
The warmth in his words spreads through my chest. I take a long sip of my own drink, trying to calm my racing heart.
On screen, something explodes. Neither of us reacts. We’re not really watching.
The whiskey disappears slowly. The film plays on. And gradually, incrementally, the space between us shrinks.
Dylan’s knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves away.
We stay like that as the film continues, barely touching, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he must be able to hear it. The whiskey warms my blood. The solid presence of him beside me warms something deeper.
I don’t know what happens next. Don’t know if this is the beginning of something or just a moment of comfort that will fade by morning. Don’t know if Dylan feels even a fraction of what I feel, or if I’m reading too much into a gesture that means nothing.
But right now, in this moment, none of that matters.
Right now, I’m just a man sitting on a sofa with someone I care about, watching a film I’m not following, feeling more at peace than I’ve ever felt in my life.
Whatever comes next, I’ll face it.
But tonight, I’m going to hold on to this.