22. Roll For Trust
Chapter twenty-two
Roll For Trust
Micah
There are several ways Ronan could have asked me on a date.
He chose the most Ronan possible version.
I was standing at the kitchen counter on Wednesday morning, waiting for coffee and trying to convince myself I had enough time to finish my sketch before my first appointment, when he walked in, opened the refrigerator, and said, “I'd like to take you to dinner Friday.”
No lead-in.
No visible nerves.
Just a sentence dropped into the kitchen like we've been doing this for years instead of having our first real kiss a week ago.
I stared at him long enough that he looked over.
“Is Friday a problem?”
“No.”
“Seven?”
“No. Seven's good.”
“Good.”
Then he got yogurt out of the refrigerator and walked away.
I stood there holding an empty coffee mug like an idiot.
A week ago, Ronan kissed me at midnight and nearly short-circuited every useful system in my body.
Three days ago, he kissed me in the hallway before work because apparently that's something we do now.
Yesterday, he grazed across the back of my shoulders and neck while passing behind my chair and kept going like he hadn't just destroyed my ability to read an email.
Now we're going on a date.
An actual date.
I should probably be less affected by this than I am.
We've lived together for years.
I know how he takes—and makes—his coffee.
I know which cabinet he keeps the migraine medication in.
I've seen him sick, pissed off, half-asleep, in full Dungeon Master mode, and standing in the kitchen at two in the morning wearing the exasperated expression of someone discovering someone else left a dirty pan in the sink again.
None of that should make dinner terrifying.
Somehow, it does.
Apparently, Ronan taking me to dinner is a charisma check I did not prepare for.
Because this isn't Ronan existing beside me in a life we've already built.
This is Ronan choosing time that belongs specifically to us.
That's different.
And apparently, I care about the difference a lot.
He doesn't tell me where we're going.
I figure out the first stop when he parks downtown in front of a gallery I've walked past at least a dozen times and never gone into.
I look through the windshield at the sign. “Seriously?”
Ronan turns off the engine. “You've never been here.”
It isn't a question.
“How do you know that?”
“You've mentioned wanting to.”
“When?”
“Last spring.”
I look at him.
He looks back.
“You remember too much.”
“I remember things that interest me.”
The answer lands quietly enough that I don't think he intends it to be romantic.
That does not stop it from being romantic—or deep.
I get out before he can watch me react.
The gallery is small, which helps. No opening-night crowd, no event, no wine glasses or strangers pretending to understand pieces because they're afraid of looking stupid.
Just art.
Paintings, mixed media, photography, some sculpture.
The current exhibit is mostly contemporary work from regional artists, and Ronan lets me move through it at whatever pace I want.
He doesn't ask me to explain every reaction.
That's one of the things I like about him.
Most people who know I draw assume I want to analyze art out loud. Ronan doesn't. He reads every card beside every piece because of course he does, occasionally makes a comment about technique or history, and otherwise leaves me alone with it.
At one point I stop in front of a charcoal portrait.
It's rough and unfinished around the shoulders, the artist letting the lines dissolve into the paper instead of closing the figure in.
Ronan stops beside me. “You like that.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I study it for another few seconds. “They knew where to stop.”
He looks from the portrait to me.
I gesture toward the bottom edge. “They could've kept going. Finished the shirt, the background, cleaned up all the construction marks. But it would've made it worse.”
“Because your eye fills in the rest.”
“Kind of.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “It gives it somewhere to breathe.”
Ronan looks at the drawing again. Then he says, “That sounds like it would be difficult for you.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Fuck you.”
His mouth curves.
He doesn't need to explain what he meant.
I spend half my life trying to finish things nobody asked me to finish.
Making sure people are okay.
Making sure Dex isn't covering something with a joke.
Making sure Cami isn't overthinking.
Making sure Griffin hasn't decided he's responsible for the atmospheric pressure.
Even at the shop, I'm the one people come to when someone is upset because apparently being quiet means you look available.
Maybe Ronan notices too much.
Or exactly enough.
We stay at the gallery almost an hour.
Dinner is at a restaurant a few blocks away, quiet enough that we can talk without leaning across the table.
Also expensive enough that I make a face at the menu.
Ronan notices my expression. “You're not paying.”
“I know.”
“Then stop doing math.”
“I wasn't doing math.”
“You looked at the steak and frowned.”
“It is an aggressively priced steak.”
He closes his menu. “Micah.”
I laugh. “Fine.”
Dinner is easier than I expected.
Maybe because after the first ten minutes, I stop thinking of it as a date.
Or maybe I stop thinking a date has to be something we're pretending not to know how to do.
We talk about the gallery. The D&D campaign. A sleeve I'm designing for a client. He tells me Shawn texted him about sitting in on a game sometime.
And that Jeremiah texted him more about shibari.
Eventually, the conversation circles toward the thing sitting between us, whether we acknowledge it or not.
I drag my thumb over the condensation on my water glass. “So.”
Ronan looks at me.
“This is a date,” I finally say.
“Yes.”
“You're very decisive about that.”
“You seemed unclear.”
“I wasn't unclear.”
“You said ‘this is a date’ like you were checking.”
“I was checking whether you thought this was a date.”
“I asked you to dinner and took you somewhere I specifically chose because I thought you'd enjoy it.”
I wait.
Ronan's eyebrows lift.
“That's fair.”
He takes another sip of water.
I smile despite myself. “So you're planning to do this again?”
His expression changes in a way that makes me feel like I've asked whether he's planning to keep using oxygen.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“I wasn't intending New Year's Eve to be a singular event.”
Something warm settles low behind my ribs. “Good.”
Ronan watches me for a moment. “Was that a concern?”
“Not exactly.”
“Micah.”
I sigh. “Maybe a little.”
He nods once, accepting the correction without making me defend it.
“I don't kiss people just because a clock reaches midnight.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. I'm stating it anyway.”
That does something dangerous to my chest.
“Okay.”
His gaze stays on mine. “And yes. I intend to keep taking you on dates.”
There's a difference between knowing something and hearing it.
I look down before my face can give away too much. “Good.”
Ronan's foot touches mine purposely under the table.
When we get home, the house is quiet.
Griffin is working.
Cami went out to do some kind of nighttime content with a client, and Dex texted that he's staying late at the bar because someone called out.
Nobody waits in the living room to see whether we hold hands coming through the door.
I appreciate that more than I know how to say.
Ronan hangs his coat in the entryway.
I do the same.
Then we stand there for a second.
Which is ridiculous.
We've both lived here for years.
I've walked these halls drunk, half-asleep, bleeding, laughing, carrying furniture… carrying Cami.
I've never been nervous about going down a hall before.
Ronan turns toward me. “Do you want to come to my room?”
My pulse shifts.
There's no ambiguity in the question.
“Yes.”
He watches my face for another moment.
Then he nods. “Come with me.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I follow him. His bedroom looks exactly the way it always has.
That's somehow the weirdest part.
Same dark bedding. Same books. Same lamp on the nightstand. Same chair in the corner with nothing draped over it because Ronan isn't a normal person who lets laundry become furniture.
But tonight I notice everything differently.
The bed.
The closed door.
The fact that he locks it.
Ronan turns to me. “Before we do anything, I want to be clear about something.”
“Okay.”
“This is not a scene.”
“Okay.”
“And I don't want to put you into a role just because we're attracted to each other.”
That makes me smile a little. “Ronan.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know you are.”
He steps closer. “I know you like control.”
“So do you.”
“Yes.”
“Probably more than me.”
“Probably.”
I laugh softly.
His hand comes up, pausing before settling at the back of my neck.
The touch immediately lowers my guard.
Not all the way, but enough.
“I also think,” he continues, “that you like giving it up sometimes.”
My mouth goes dry. “Yeah.”
“Do you want to give me some tonight?”
There are probably better answers.
More articulate ones.
My brain finds none of them.
“Yes.”
His thumb moves slowly against my neck.
“Stoplight?”
“Green.”
“If that changes?”
“I tell you.”
“If you stop wanting this?”
“I tell you.”
His gaze sharpens. “And if you're not sure?”
“Yellow.”
“Good.”
The praise hits differently than it should.
Maybe because I usually give it.
Maybe because Ronan knows that.
He kisses me before I can think about it too much.
The kiss is slower than New Year's.
No countdown.
No fireworks.
No months of pressure breaking open at once.
This feels deliberate in a completely different way.
His hand stays at my neck while the other settles at my waist, and I let myself touch him immediately this time—within certain zones.
One hand against his side.
The other at his shoulder.
Nothing unexpected.
Nothing from behind.
I know his rules.
More importantly, I'm starting to know his body.
The way his breathing changes when I move my thumb along his ribs.
The slight tightening in his hand when he likes something.
The way he leans into contact when he's the one who has already decided he wants it.
Ronan breaks the kiss and orders, “Shirt off.”