“Today was a good day,” she said softly. “Thank you. For the company and the moral support.”
They stood at the same time, her sliding off the bed and him pushing his chair back. Their knees brushed, and he settled his hands on her upper arms as she straightened up.
Somehow she found herself in the circle of Dean’s arms, closer than ever before, and that was when she saw it.
Behind the cool, hard planes of his face, beneath the granite jaw and the hazel eyes, there was a shadow in his gaze. Deep, dark concern. She worried him, to the point where when she wobbled, he held on long after she found her footing.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. She meant it in more ways than literally in that moment. It was mostly true.
“Think about it tonight,” he said roughly. “When you’re lying in bed. Close your eyes and think about what you want tomorrow to be.”
“It’ll be what it’ll be.” She gave a little laugh. “I thought we were the Fatalists Forever club.”
“I’m not talking about imagining something warm and fuzzy. Remember, I know how to wage war. If you visualize how the battle will go down, you can control it.”
“I don’t want to do battle, Dean. I just want to sing.”
“That’s what you’ve got me for.” He ran his hands down the outside of her arms, then he leaned in, just a bit. As if he might kiss her forehead.
He froze, then pulled back with a jerk.
Her breath caught in her throat as he looked at her, a storm brewing in his eyes. Not the same worry as before. Something not quite as kind. Not mean, either, just—
He cleared his throat, snapping her out of her thought spiral. He dropped his hands and took a long, confident stride away from her. “Good night, Liana.”
“Night,” she whispered, turning with him.
“Text me when you wake up.”
“I will.” She pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything else and watched him leave her room.
Beneath that solid, quiet exterior lay a lot more than she’d given him credit for. Dean was suddenly quite complicated, and she didn’t know what to do about that.
What had she expected? Dudley Do-Right?
She sat down heavily. Well, yeah, sort of. He’d been like a Ken Doll/Superman hybrid for days. He was the living embodiment of a safe Good Guy.
Was he attracted to her after all?
If he was…how did she feel about that?
He wanted to fix her.
And she was a hot mess—but not so screwed up that she couldn’t see how leaning on him too much would be a recipe for disaster. She didn’t need saving.
For nearly a decade, she’d been saving herself just fine.
Well, mostly fine. Surviving kind of fine.
She didn’t want to think of all the ways that she didn’t have her shit together.
After she washed off her makeup and went through her nighttime routine, when she crawled into bed and closed her eyes, she tried to just go to sleep.
Tried not to think about Dean and the way his hazel eyes turned dark when he was close enough. Told herself it wasn’t whatever she’d imagined. It was just…he wanted to fix her.
He didn’t want her.
He just wanted her to be less broken. She was a job to him.
