Tears I didn't know were coming slip down my cheeks. Dylan reaches over, takes my free hand in his. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, grounding me.
"Everyone told me I was overreacting. That's why I needed those two weeks off. My parents said everyone deserves a second chance. Our friends suggested couple's therapy. They all acted like I was the problem for having boundaries, for walking away. Only Jessica understood. Only she said I had every right to leave."
"You did," Dylan says firmly. "You do."
I meet his eyes again.
"Listen." Dylan sets down his wine glass and turns to face me fully. In the soft light from the city below, his gray eyes are intense, focused entirely on me.
"You're the strongest person I know," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "Walking away takes incredible courage." He squeezes my hand gently, and my heart skips a beat.
"But Avery—" He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Being strong doesn't mean facing everything alone."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the city humming below us, the wine warming my chest. The adrenaline from earlier has faded, leaving me exhausted but oddly peaceful. Safe.
"I should let you sleep," I say eventually, noticing how late it's gotten.
We both stand.
"The guest suite is all yours," he says, voice controlled and gentle. "I’m down the hall if you need anything."
He walks me to the room, and I close the door behind me, leaning against it as my heart races in my chest. I think it would hurt less if he’d been careless. If he’d pushed. If he’d been anything like Oliver.
But he isn’t. And that’s what terrifies me.
I crawl into the soft guest bed, still wrapped in his sweatshirt, still breathing in traces of his cologne. The sheets are cool, the city quiet beyond the windows, but my body is warm in a way that has nothing to do with blankets.
For the first time in months, I am wrapped in a sense of security I haven't felt in so long.
Chapter six
Avery
The coffee appears on my desk every morning at 7:15 AM, still steaming, with a small note in Dylan's handwriting. Today's reads:Miller meeting at 10. You've got this.
“Oh, is that from the boss?” A nosey colleague, Madeline, peers over my shoulder. I hide the note under a folder.
“Uh, yeah. Doesn’t he treat everyone to coffee once in a while?”
“No. No, he doesn’t.” Shooting me a weirded-out look, Madeline retreats to her desk.
I take out Dylan’s post-it once more. I trace the words with my fingertip, then fold the note carefully and add it to the growing collection in my desk drawer.
Two weeks since I slept in his guest room, and it's been torture.
I throw myself into the Miller acquisition. Contracts become my shield, legal language my armor against the way Dylan's presence fills every room he enters. But it's getting harder to maintain the professional distance when we're working sixteen-hour days side by side, when his hand finds the small of my back to guide me into conference rooms, when he defends my ideasto the senior partners with fierce conviction that makes my chest constrict.
"The liability clause needs restructuring," I tell him during our morning review, keeping my voice steady even though he's standing close enough that I can smell his cologne, a blend that reminds me of oranges and something woodsy. "Their lawyers are trying to shift the assumption of risk in subsection twelve."
Dylan leans over my shoulder to read the passage I'm indicating, and I forget how to breathe. His sleeve brushes my arm as he points to another section. "Good catch. Flag it for Harrison. She'll want to see this before the call."
Professional. Appropriate. Nothing like the way his voice dropped to a growl when he told Oliver to leave my building. Nothing like the care in his eyes on his balcony.
I close my eyes, trying to chase away the memory, but it clings to me like morning fog.
"Avery?" Dylan's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"
"Fine." The automatic response, even though we both know it's a lie. Even though the restraining order I filed with Dylan's help sits in my apartment is proof that I'm anything but fine.
