He’s silent for a beat. Then crosses to the bar area and pulls open the vintage refrigerator—the one he keeps stocked with imported beer and the fancy sparkling water he pretends he doesn’t drink—and takes out two bottles. He pops the cap off one and hands it to me.
But before I can bring it to my lips, he plucks it right back out of my hand.
“You know what? You need something stronger than this.” He sets both bottles aside and reaches for a cabinet under the makeshift bar—an old workbench that he converted to fit the aesthetic—producing a bottle of Japanese whiskey. He pours two generous glasses and hands one over. “Sit. Talk.”
I sink onto the battered leather couch he claims is for ‘thinking’ but is mostly for napping between projects.
“So, what brought this about?” Dominic asks when it seems like I’m not going to continue on my own.
I take a deep breath and stare into the whiskey. “We had a fight. Things got tense between us at the lab—I don’t even know how it happened. We were supposed to be working through the FDA security revisions, and then it turned into something else entirely.”
Dominic leans back against the bar, arms crossed, eyes sharp and focused on me. “What happened?”
I shrug, feeling the weight of everything that happened. “I snapped when she kept shooting down my ideas. I accused her of being dismissive, and she fired back about me not sharing anything about myself.” I let out a hollow laugh. “She was right, of course. I’ve been keeping her at a distance. I just… I don’t want to share her with them.”
Dominic is quiet for a moment—unusually quiet, which means he’s actually thinking. He studies me over the rim of his glass, then says, “You think they’ll break her.”
“That’s an understatement.” I take a drink. The whiskey burns, then settles, warming a space that’s gone cold. “You know what they’re like. You’ve met them.”
Dominic stares into his glass. “They’re like a TED Talk that fucks you up emotionally.”
God. It’s perfect. I want to laugh, but instead I just drain my glass.
He pours another round and sets his own down, dropping on the couch beside me. “You ever think that maybe it’s not her they’ll break? Maybe they’re just... reflective surfaces for your own nightmare scenario?”
I glare at him. “Did you just accuse me of projecting?”
“I did,” he says, all fake solemnity and real affection. “Look. They’re monsters. But they’re also furniture. You’ve lived withthem your whole life—Audrey hasn’t. Give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Come on, man. You know my mother,” I say, and my own laugh comes out dark. “She can smell insecurity at a hundred yards.”
“I think your father is the one to watch,” Dominic shoots back. “The man’s a Bond villain crossed with a motivational speaker. But… I’ve survived several dinners and meetings with them, and I’m still largely intact. You’re honestly telling me you think Audrey couldn’t hold her own?”
“She shouldn’t have to.” I say it too fast, too loud, and the words shock me. Dominic just raises an eyebrow.
“She wants to, or you wouldn’t be here. This is classic Logan, man—you make a risk matrix out of everything, but none of your math ever factors in that people might actually want to show up for you. You’re not protecting her. You’re protecting you.”
The words land like a punch I didn’t see coming. I want to argue—want to explain that it’s different, that he doesn’t understand—but I can’t, because he’s right. He’s fucking right.
He taps the side of his glass. “And you’re definitely not protecting your parents, because they’d love nothing more than to dissect her and mount her on a plaque next to your old debate trophies.”
I groan and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “How do I do this? Is there a playbook for introducing someone to your worst impulses and your worst genetics?”
Dominic considers. “Actually, yes.” He gets up, pacing a circuit behind the couch, and I know he’s revving up for some kind of performance. “Step one: you warn her about the dragon’s lair. Step two: you go in together. Step three—” He snaps his fingers. “You set something on fire. Not literally. But you find a way to disrupt the script. You refuse to play the role they’ve assigned you.”
I stare. “That’s your advice?”
He leans over the back of the couch, all bright eyes and smirks. “Audrey doesn’t want protection. She wants partnership. She wants the real you, even if the real you is quietly cringing your way through a high-stakes parental inquisition. You want her to see you, but right now, all you’re showing her is the curated version.”
The curated version. The one I’ve been perfecting since I was eight—smart enough to be useful, controlled enough to be tolerable, edited enough that no one sees the mess underneath.
When I say nothing, he adds, softer, “But Audrey doesn’t want the curated version. She wants you.”
“This version is me.”
“It’s the version you prefer. But behind it is a whole fucked-up legacy and a lot of pain. Audrey already sees it—she just thinks you don’t trust her with the truth. That’s the part you’re fucking up.”
I don’t try to argue. What’s the point? Dominic knows me better than I know myself, and every word seems lined up on a grid for maximum impact.
