Ivan gave him a long, knowing look.
Dorian took a sip of tea, deliberately avoiding his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Ivan chuckled softly. "Aye. Thought you might say that."
But the ever-present tension between the two men had eased into something resembling tolerance. And if they didn’t see eye to eye on most things, at least they understood each other without ever admitting it aloud.
Chapter thirty-three
Chapter 33
Five days before her parents were due to leave, Dorian had quietly taken over the guest bedroom at the end of the hall-officially "to help out," though everyone and their donkey knew it was just another excuse to hover.
Every morning, he was up before Rune, somehow managing to charm her mother into letting him near the stove. The kitchen smelt of toast and coffee when Rune padded in, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand, long hair piled into a lopsided, messy bun that looked ready to collapse. Her mother was at the stove, humming as she stirred something fragrant, while Dorian hovered nearby, dutifully taking her instructions like an apprentice chef. He was so intent on not burning the toast that he didn't even notice Rune's bleary glare.
"Honestly," she grumbled, voice rough with sleep, "you're like an opportunistic infection. Give you a warm host and you spread."
Her mother hid a smile. "He's just helping, love."
Rune snorted. "That's how it always starts with parasites."
Dorian, without looking up, said mildly, "You know, parasites usually don't cook breakfast," as he flipped the buttered toast on the pan.
"Mm. They do take over the host, though," she mumbled, reaching for a mug to make tea. "And you're getting real comfortable in this house."
He glanced over his shoulder, lips twitching. "You know all my best tricks."
Her mother set down the spoon and turned with a sly smile. "Don't you worry, Dory. I know exactly what she's capable of, and she'll chuck you out on your ear if you forget where the boundaries are."
He only inclined his head solemnly and didn’t even seem to notice the pet name. "Crystal."
But despite Rune's best efforts, including leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, he refused to leave. At seven sharp, there was a soft knock, followed by his low bass rumble through the door. "Tea's ready."
Sometimes she was already awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to decide if she could face another day of nausea. Sometimes she wasn't. But either way, when she opened the door, there he was, his hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up, holding out a steaming peace offering.
When the sickness hit, he didn't back off like she expected him to. He held her hair back, rubbed slow circles on her spine, murmured something awkwardly useless but weirdly soothing. Then he'd disappear and come back with a pack of crackers and a fresh cup of ginger tea, setting them on her nightstand without a word.
Rune didn't knowwhenhe worked. She only knew that Tom was around, she'd heard his voice on the phone in the evenings. Yet somehow, Dorian was always trailing her, quietly efficient, irritatingly calm, and, she hated to admit it, exactly what she needed.
He'd taken note of every aversion. No cheese. The smell alone was enough to send her running. So, no pizza, no cheese on toast, no pasta with sauce. Once, her mum had made macaroni, and Dorian had practically leapt across the kitchen to intercept it. "Not unless youfancy redecorating the walls," he'd said dryly, earning him an eye-roll from Rune and an approving smile from her mum.
It was odd, she thought one afternoon, watching him chop vegetables with quiet focus. Dorian had once been the man who made lists of people to destroy before breakfast. Now he was standing in her mother's kitchen, sleeves rolled up, learning the correct ratio of ginger to honey for her morning tea. And the strangest part? He looked... content.
Dorian's presence became as dependable as the sunrise. Her parents did not look the least bit worried when they stepped into the chauffeured car that Dorian had arranged for their trip, though her Da did whisper that she only had to send him a message if Dorian was being an arse and he would take the next train over.
Every morning, he was at the door before she could protest, car keys in hand, ready to drive her to the office. He brought her lunch at exactly noon, usually something mild and bland but thoughtfully chosen. Then, when the day was done, he was waiting outside again, leaning against the car like some overqualified chauffeur.
Dinner, somehow, always appeared. Rune never asked how. Dorian wasn't exactly a chef. He'd once burned toast so badly the smoke alarm had gone off, but he had learned enough to keep them both alive. "Basic cooking for basic survival," he'd muttered one evening, presenting her with grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and precisely three boiled potatoes.
"Gourmet," Rune had teased.
"Cooking is a lot of work," he'd countered, wiping the sweat off his brow.
She couldn't argue. Eggs, once her easy fallback, now turned her stomach, a new and unwelcome aversion. Dorian had quietly banished them from the house. After dinner, their evenings fell into a rhythm. She'd curl up on the sofa with a book while he sat beside her, brow furrowed over a stack of guides on pregnancy and newborn care or on his laptop, typing away. She tried not to smile at the sight of him taking notes like he was preparing for an exam. She used to do that. She had offered to help but he only responded by autocratically pulling her feet onto his lap and rendering her boneless with a foot massage. She had tried to protest at the ‘unwelcome’ liberties he was taking, but he had retaliated by stopping the foot massage. So that was the end of that minor rebellion.
One evening, she heard his low voice from the next room. When she peeked in, he was on a video call with Crispin. Curiosity on high alert, Rune eavesdropped shamelessly. Crispin, it turned out, was in Wales. The two men were deep in a discussion that made her blink in disbelief.
"So, how do you even hold a baby?" Crispin was asking.
