Chapter 15 Dorian
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dorian
Mom’s episode rattles around my skull long after the nurse settles her with her meds, long after the shouting in her voice has dissolved into raw, exhausted muttering.
I knew, logically, that late-stage MS came with this stuff: cognitive shifts, bursts of temper, confusion. But knowing something in theory isn’t the same as watching your mother—your brilliant, sharp, meticulous mother—hurl a vase at the wall because she thought I’d stolen her scarf.
The scarf was in her lap the whole time.
I’d crouched beside her, voice low, hands gentle, reminding her who I was, reminding her she was safe, reminding her that the nurse, Anna, wasn’t an intruder. The moment her breathing eased, that hollow guilt punched through me.
I shouldn’t have left her. Not even for a few hours. But this was for Norah.
I had to stay with Norah.
But then I left Mom again. I was too much of a coward to wait and see how she was doing.
Besides, I needed a place to hold my damn conference call without worrying she’d wander out the front door again.
So I’m here at the community hall, sterile lights humming above me, laptop open, nodding through an hour-long face-to-face with my boss in Portland. My face is composed, voice even, but inside everything’s a churn of stress and cold and something bitter that tastes like helplessness.
For almost twelve years, Mom held herself together through everything like the definition of grit. Now she’s unraveling in small, devastating pieces, and I don’t know how to hold this version of her without breaking my own damn spine.
The call finally ends. I close my laptop and rub my eyes until I see stars.
“Done?” Ryker’s voice echoes from the far side of the hall.
I look over. He’s wearing his usual work jacket, clipboard tucked under one arm, the picture of calm structural competence.
“Yeah,” I say, voice a little rough. “Thanks for giving me a minute.”
“No problem,” he says as he joins me. “I looked around while you were on your call. Good news—no damage from the party. Decorations are still up, the paint’s intact, nothing collapsed. Though I still think it’d be easier if we knock down these interior walls and start fresh.”
He gestures to the dividing section behind us.
I nod, stepping beside him. “I get the appeal. But seating’s gonna be a pain in the ass. If we build benches, we lose versatility. People use this place for everything from craft fairs to weddings. Removable chairs make more sense.”
He lifts a brow. “You saying permanent benches are a bad idea?”
“In a structure like this? Yeah.”
He gives a small smirk, a half-laugh kind of sound. “Guess that’s why they paired me with you. This place needed an architect. You actually think before swinging a hammer.”
“Most days,” I say. “Not all.”
Because it seems like in my life, all I keep doing is swinging a metaphorical hammer and destroying everything around me.
He marks something on his clipboard. “Speaking of, did you come to the Halloween party last night?”
“I did,” I say.
He nods.
“Everyone seemed happy with how it turned out. Almost everyone was in attendance,” I murmur. “Norah made it look like something out of a movie.”
He glances sideways at me, curious but not pushing.
“Figured you and Jude’d be there,” I add.
“Parties aren’t my thing,” he says. “Jude’s either. He was dealing with family stuff.”
I nod. “Everything okay?”
“Not sure yet,” he says. “But he’ll fill you in.” He taps his clipboard once more. “Alright. I’m heading out. Got a meeting with the mayor. Fingers crossed he hasn’t changed his mind about anything.”
“I’ll stay here and finish measuring the east wall,” I say. “Call if he wants something different.”
Ryker nods, then claps my shoulder lightly. “See you later.”
When he leaves, the hall falls into a kind of hollow stillness. The decorations from last night look like ghosts of a celebration—flowers, draped netting, carved pumpkins that still smell faintly sweet.
I sit on one of the fold-out chairs and pull out my phone, staring at it like it might tell me how the hell to be a good son, a decent man, something other than a collection of jagged nerves and half-buried regrets.
I search:
late-stage MS behavioral changes
how to help a parent with emotional outbursts
caregiver burnout signs
Each article punches a hole in my chest.
Should I call my father?
My jaw locks.
The last person Mom would want is him. And the last person I want is a man who walked out on us when I was still a kid.
So no. He doesn’t get a damn phone call.
I close the search tab and lean back, staring at the ceiling.
I want comfort. I want someone who makes me feel like everything will be okay.
I want her.
Norah.
It’s nearly three.
She hasn’t contacted me all day. Why hasn’t she called me? Texted me?
My chest tightens. I want to tell myself it doesn’t matter. But it does. It does in ways I don’t even have words for.
She looked at me last night like she wanted to swallow the stars and hand me the light.
She smelled like sugar and snow and heat blooming under her skin.
She fell apart in my arms in the best possible way.
And then I left.
I scrub my hand down my face. Should I text her? Would she even respond?
Is she upset?
Does she hate me?
I miss her. I miss her so damn much.
I tell myself I’m going to grab lunch. I tell myself to get in my car and go to the diner and eat a normal meal like a normal adult.
But my hands move without my permission. The car engine starts, the heater sputters to life, and somehow—some impossible, gravitational somehow—I end up turning onto her street.
Norah pulls me in like the tide. Like she’s the moon and I’m the water, and I never really learned how to resist her.
By the time I reach the shop, I know I’m not turning back.
I park, step out, pull my scarf tighter. The air bites at my cheeks. The bell above her shop door chimes as I push it open.
She’s crouched on the floor, wiping up spilled potting soil and crushed poinsettias. Her hair falls over her shoulder in soft auburn curls, a wrap dress hugging her hips, her boots braced against the tile.
She stands when she hears the bell, a bright, automatic smile already forming on her lips. “Hi, welcome—”
Then she sees me.
The smile dies.
Her eyes widen. Her shoulders go tense. And something inside me drops hard and fast, like missing a step on a staircase.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice clipped, guarded.
I swallow, hands in my coat pockets. “Everything okay? Can I help?”
She snorts softly as she turns back to the sink. “I’m fine. Just knocked it over.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I say. “Why didn’t you text me?”
She glances over her shoulder, brow furrowing as she washes her hands. “I don’t have your number.”
“Yes, you do.”
She turns fully now, drying her hands on a towel, eyes sharpening. “No, Dorian, I don’t.”
I take a few slow steps closer. “You and I both know you’re lying. You’ve never deleted my number, have you?”
She stands her ground, chin lifting, breath hitching like she’s trying not to show I’m right.
“You should’ve texted me,” I say softly.
“And told you what?” Her voice wavers. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back to my face.
I move closer.
She shifts her weight, thighs pressing together. The scent of her rises warm and sweet—roses and something else under it, something simmering low.
“Maybe thanked me,” I murmur. “For making you come.”
She swallows hard, eyes flashing. “You’re cocky. Besides, I think it was the other way around.”
I laugh. “Is it?”
Her breath shudders.
Her body’s giving her away—her pulse jumping at her throat, her fingers curling around the edge of the counter like she’s afraid she’ll reach for me otherwise.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t come closer.”
“Why?” My voice drops. “Tell me.”
“Because…” Her cheeks flush deep, her hand pressing to the edge of the sink like she needs something to hold on to. “It just occurred to me that I forgot to take my heat suppressant this morning.”
A slow fire rolls through me at the words.
I take another step until I can smell her hard enough to make my teeth ache.
She bites her bottom lip.
I’m lost.
I lift my hand, cup her cheek, feel the warmth there, the small tremble in her breath as she tilts her head back without meaning to.
Her skin calls to my mouth like a damn magnet.
“You smell…” I lower my mouth to her neck, breath brushing her skin, “insanely edible right now.”
“Dorian…” Her hands grip my arms, fingers sinking into my coat.
I lick a slow stripe along her neck, savoring the taste of her. A rush goes straight through my spine. I kiss the spot just under her ear, the same place she gasped for me last night, and my body goes hot all at once.
There are bruises here. Faint, purple, mine. Seeing them is enough to send everything inside me reeling.
She arches, head tipping back. Her breath catches.
I kiss her.
It’s a collision. Heat meeting heat, her mouth opening under mine like she’s been starving for this since the moment she woke up.
She fists my coat like she’s trying to pull me inside her body. Her scent rises sharp and sweet, roses and need tangling in the back of my throat.
She makes this sound—not a moan, not a gasp, something caught between the two—and it rips straight through me, knocking the air out of my lungs.
Everything in me pulls tight. My hands slide to her waist, dragging her closer, feeling her melt into me like she can’t help it.
Her pulse drums against my mouth as I kiss down her throat, tasting the warmth there, the heat vibrating under her skin. She tilts her hips into mine in a way that sends a punch of desire straight through my spine.
My breath falters; hers breaks entirely.
“Dorian…” she whispers, but it’s not a warning this time. It’s surrender wrapped in sound.
Her fingers drag into my hair. Her thighs press together. She’s trembling just enough that I feel every shiver travel through both of us.