Oliver has been silent for two weeks. No texts, no calls, no surprise visits. I should feel relieved.
Instead, I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble.
The day passes in a blur of meetings and document reviews. Dylan and I move around each other with practiced precision, a choreography we've perfected over the past few months that now feels loaded with unspoken tension. Every accidental touch sends electricity through my skin that demands to be felt. Every shared glance holds weight I can’t ignore.
By evening, we're alone in his office with the final contract revisions spread across his conference table. The city sparkles beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I'm hyperaware of howempty the building feels, how it's just us and the cleaning crew and all this space between what we are and what we could be.
"This indemnification clause is problematic," I say, highlighting the section. "They're trying to limit their exposure to ten million when the potential liability could reach fifty."
Dylan rolls up his sleeves—a simple gesture that shouldn't affect me the way it does. "What do you recommend?"
"Push for uncapped indemnification or walk away. The risk isn't worth it otherwise."
"Agreed." He makes a note, then glances at me. "You're brilliant, you know that?"
The compliment catches me off guard. Not because he hasn't praised my work before, but because of the way he says it. Like it's a simple fact. Like the sky is blue and water is wet, and I'm brilliant.
"Dylan—"
"Harrison was right about you," he continues, not letting me deflect. "That first day, she told me you were going to be trouble. The best kind, of course."
My pen slips from my fingers, clattering on the table. The sound seems too loud in the quiet office. I reach for it at the same time Dylan does, our hands colliding, his fingers over mine.
I pull my hand back like I've been burned; frustration and want and fear all tangling in my chest until I can't breathe.
We sit there for a moment in charged awkward silence, the contract forgotten, the city lights casting shadows across Dylan's face.
He sets down his pen with deliberate calm and turns to face me fully.
"Avery, listen. I know your batshit ex hurt you badly enough that you built walls,” he says, and I’m still stunned about him cursing as he continues in a softer tone, “I recognize because I built the same ones. I know he made you believe that lovingsomeone means becoming less, when real love should make you more."
Oh. The words steal the air from my lungs. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed.
Dylan's hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but won't without my permission. "You deserve someone who will earn your trust.”
I remember the past two weeks—the coffee appearing like clockwork, the way he positions himself between me and the door in crowded elevators because he noticed I get claustrophobic, the patient texts checking if I'm okay without demanding responses.
And suddenly, the dam overflows, and I'm angry. Angry at Oliver for breaking me. Angry at myself for still being broken. Angry at Dylan for making me want things I swore I'd never want again.
"Why are you doing this?" The words burst out before I can stop them.
Dylan straightens, confused. "Doing what?"
"This." I gesture between us, my composure finally cracking. "Caring so much about me. Making me feel like I'm important."
"Because you are, Avery," he says, and this time, his hand doesn't need permission. It takes mine. "You're brilliant, kind, and amazing. You are… everything any man would ever want."
"And what wouldyouwant from me?" I ask, stunned. No one has ever said those things to me.
"Everything."
The single word hangs between us, heavy with promise.
"I want Sunday mornings, terrible coffee, and arguments about contract law. I want you to challenge me in boardrooms and trust me with your fears. I want you to stop running and let me prove that I'm not him."
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. “Dylan…”
"I'm not him," Dylan insists firmly.
