His response is immediate:I'll cook dinner. Come over whenever you're ready.
I look at the white rose Oliver left behind. A symbol of everything we were and everything we'll never be. It's wilting slightly at the edges, already starting to die in the warmth of the coffee shop. I leave it on the table when Jessica and I stand to leave. Let the baristas throw it away with the empty cups and used napkins.
I don't need it.
What I need is waiting for me: a man who loves me exactly as I am, a future I'm ready to fight for, and the courage to finally stop running.
As Jessica and I walk out into the San Francisco afternoon, fog rolling in from the bay and cooling my flushed cheeks, I realize this is the moment everything changes. I'm not just moving on from Oliver. I'm moving toward Dylan. Toward partnership. Toward a love that doesn't require me to be anything other than myself.
Jessica links her arm through mine as we walk. "Coffee actually worked out in your favor for once," she teases. "Usually you're a disaster with hot beverages."
I laugh, surprised by how easy it feels. "I took tea this time. And didn't even drink it."
"Smart. Your taste in coffee is terrible anyway."
"Dylan says the same thing."
"Dylan is correct." She squeezes my arm. "You ready to go on with him?"
I think about Dylan in his penthouse, probably pacing, checking his phone every thirty seconds. Cooking dinner because he needs something to do with his hands. Waiting for me because that's what he does—he waits, he trusts, he gives me space to be myself.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm ready."
For the first time in longer than I can remember, Avery Cole is ready for all of it.
By the time I reach Dylan's building, the fog has rolled in thick and heavy, turning the city soft-edged and dreamlike. I text him from the lobby:Coming up.
He meets me at his door, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the worry in his eyes. "How are you?" he asks, ushering me inside.
Instead of answering, I step into his space and kiss him.
Avidly. Seeking.
For a split second, he goes completely still. Surprised. Then his hands come up to frame my face. Thumbs brush my cheekbones. He deepens the kiss with a hunger that steals my breath.
The door slams. I grip his shirt, pulling him closer. My shoulders hit the wall, and he follows, his body pressing against mine as his mouth moves to my jaw, my neck. And I can't hold the moan escaping my mouth.
"Avery," he breathes against my skin.
"Bedroom," I manage.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and searching. "Are you sure?"
"Dylan." His name has never sounded like that on my lips—like a prayer, like a plea. "Bedroom. Now."
We're moving, stumbling toward his bedroom, shedding clothes between kisses and gasped breaths. It's intense and unhurried all at once—passion tempered with care, need balanced with tenderness. Every touch saysI see you, I've got you, you're safe here.And for the first time in weeks, I let myself believe it.
After, we lie tangled together, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down.
"Tell me," he says softly. "How did the meeting go?"
So I do. I tell him about Oliver's apology, about the honesty that came too late, about the white rose I left behind. Dylan listens with his hand still wandering over my body.
"I'm proud of you," he says when I finish, his thumb stroking gentle circles against my cheekbones. "That took courage."
"I'm done running," I tell him, and the words feel like a promise. "From Oliver, from my past, from you. I'm done letting fear make my decisions."
Dylan's smile could power the entire city. He pulls me close, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Strong and steady and sure.
