He looked at me then, direct. “You ought to see the overlook off Omega Road, north side of town. Sunset hits the valley and turns the whole sky into fire. Nobody’s ever there—too far from the breweries and not enough parking for the tourists.”
His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, but I caught a flicker of something behind the words: hope, or at least the wish for a reaction. I tried to give him one. “Sounds nice. Is it, like, a date spot, or more ‘teenagers go there to smoke up’ kind of thing?”
He grinned, for real this time. “Depends who you bring.”
Dean’s presence had a gravity to it. He didn’t fill space so much as bend it around himself, so that even a mundane errand—like picking up a dog for his mother—turned into something dangerous and weirdly charged.
Sergeant stood and stretched, her head nudging my thigh. “She’s already attached to you,” I said, mostly to fill air.
“She’s always liked women better,” Dean said, rolling his voice softer, almost sheepish. “Figures.”
I almost laughed. “You mean dogs or—?”
He cut me off with a single shake of his head, but he was smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners. “Both, probably.”
I wanted to ask about the patches, about the history mapped out in the thread and blood, and whatever stories he wasn’t telling. Instead, I said, “If you walk her at the same time every day, she’ll chill out after a week or two.”
“I’ll make sure of it.” He reached down and scratched Sergeant behind the ear, slow and deliberate. She leaned into his hand, exhaling a rattly sigh.
It should have been an ending. Instead, he hovered, not quite leaving, one hand on the leash and the other fidgeting with the dog tags at his neck. I watched the light glint off the steel and wondered how many times they’d been rolled between his fingers, a private Morse code for whatever he couldn’t say out loud.
The shelter behind us was closed for the night, the air thick with the residual smell of ammonia and hot rubber. My shirt clung to my back, sweat stippling my hairline despite the breeze.
Dean finally spoke, low and sudden. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
He said it as if reading it off a form, no inflection, no demand. Just a flat proposition, the kind that could be accepted or denied without consequence.
I blinked, the question catching me mid-breath. “Tonight?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, glancing at the ground like he wanted to spit and was holding it back for my benefit. “If you’re off. I could show you the overlook. Not on a date, unless you want to call it that.”
I wanted to say something clever, or at least self-protective, but the words lined up in my mouth and refused to be sorted. “I… don’t usually go out during the week. Work eats up my social battery.”
He waited. Didn’t push. The silence this time was easier, almost gentle.
Sergeant circled his boots and sat again, this time facing me. She cocked her head, and for a second, I felt like she was judging the situation, too.
Dean looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You can say no.”
I shook my head, half-laughing. “It’s not that. It’s just—” I gestured at myself, at my utility jeans and the Humane Society polo that was now streaked with dog hair and bleach. “This is who I am, pretty much all the time.”
He stepped forward, closing the distance to a conversational intimacy, but not enough to crowd me. “That’s fine. I don’t want the version that puts on a dress and pretends she’s not thinking about work.”
The words knocked something loose in my chest. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and Dean’s gaze flicked there, tracking the motion. I remembered too late that the paw print tattoo was visible, a tiny black parade behind my right lobe. He smiled—not mocking, but like he understood the need to mark your own story on your skin.
I found myself nodding before I could form a proper answer. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go.”
He didn’t gloat, didn’t even smile wider. He just nodded, like we’d agreed on a trade route or a ceasefire. “Pick you up at seven?”
“I can meet you,” I said, instinctively resisting the full-court press of old-school chivalry.
He shrugged, a smooth roll of shoulders. “Dealer’s choice. But I’ve got a second helmet and the sidecar’s rigged for dogs, if you’re feeling brave.”
I snorted. “You built a sidecar for your mother’s dog?”
“Started it when I thought she’d want to ride again. Finished it when I realized I’d have to do the walking for her.” His face didn’t change, but I heard the undertow in the words.
I reached down and gave Sergeant a scratch between the eyes. “She’s gonna like it,” I said, meaning both the dog and, maybe, Dean’s mother.
