The plane landed with a gentle thud, tires kissing the runway as the cabin shifted slightly under the weight of descent. I exhaled, realizing I'd been holding my breath. The turbulence mid-flight had made my stomach twist more than I cared to admit, and I might've gripped the armrest a little too tightly during those moments—but thankfully, Dylan hadn't said anything.
If he noticed, he kept it to himself. And somehow, that small grace mattered.
As we taxied toward the private hangar, I glanced out the window. The sky was still cloaked in early morning gray, that strange in-between light where the world feels hushed and half-asleep. The jet slowed to a stop, and within minutes, one of the attendants opened the door. Cool, crisp air rushed in, scented faintly with jet fuel and the promise of a new city.
Dylan stood first, adjusted the cuff of his jacket with a practiced ease, and stepped off the plane. He didn't say anything, but as he walked ahead, he glanced over his shoulder—just once, then again—making sure I was still behind him.
I followed, my boots echoing softly on the metal steps. The moment I stepped out onto the tarmac, I caught sight of the sleek black SUV waiting for us just outside the hangar gates. A suited chauffeur stood by the passenger door, expression unreadable and posture rigid. Two more men lingered nearby—guards, I assumed—but they didn't move until Dylan nodded at them.
This was his world, after all. And I was just stepping further into it.
He walked like he belonged to the city—or maybe the city belonged to him. Every step was calm and deliberate, not demanding attention, but somehow still commanding it. He didn't need to speak or lead with force—the ground seemed to know him, adjusting to his pace, and the world around him fell into step without question.
The drive toward the hotel wasn't long, but it gave me just enough time to settle into the quiet and take everything in. Dylan was on a call, his voice low and clipped as he spoke in a different language, maybe Turkish, something sharp and quick that I didn't try to follow. He sat comfortably beside me, back straight, one arm resting on the edge of the door as he listened intently to whoever was on the other end.
I pulled out my tablet, scrolling through his schedule to check the time and details of his upcoming meeting. Everything was lined up with military precision, as usual. Even chaos bent to his clock.
After a few minutes, I let my attention drift back to the window. The car rolled past small clustered townhouses, their rooftops slightly uneven, each painted in soft pastels or deep clay reds. They stood together like close friends, shoulder to shoulder, tucked into the quiet outskirts of the city. In the distance, mountains rose behind them—misty, towering, unmoving, like they'd been there long before any of us and had no plans of leaving.
The roads were wide at first, smooth and open, but as we began to approach the city center, they narrowed, curving gently around stone buildings and bustling shopfronts that looked like they'd lived a thousand lives.
The city itself felt like a painting—aged, textured, but anything but dull. There was color everywhere. Faded orange shutters. Blue windowpanes. Vines trailing down balconies. Markets spilling onto the streets with vibrant clothes and warm bread, and laughter. It wasn't chaotic, not in the way most cities are. It was alive. And honest. Like it carried every year of its history in full view, proud and unpolished.
I found myself leaning against the window a little, eyes tracing the details as we passed them by.
Old. Historic. Beautiful.
This was the kind of place someone could spend a lifetime in and still find something new every morning. The air here moved slowly, brushing past buildings with centuries written into their stone. The colors weren't loud, but they weren't dull either—they were warm and lived-in. Like everything had meaning. The cracked tiles, the ivy curling around faded shutters, the scent of fresh bread in the early air. It didn't feel rushed. It didn't feel violent. It felt… still.
And God, I wanted stillness.
Not just for a moment, not just for this trip, but permanently. I wanted this silence to settle inside me, to fill every space that had been carved out by years of pain and noise. This—this calm, this anonymity, this lack of chaos—this was the kind of life I had dreamt of in passing, during late nights and long drives, only to shove it away because it felt too distant. Too unrealistic.
Most girls grow up believing they deserve peace. I wasn't one of them. I had grown up learning how to survive, how to please, and how to read a room the moment I entered it. I was taught to be useful, not happy. I was taught to endure, not to feel emotions.
But these last few weeks with Dylan… something changed.
It wasn't perfect. He wasn't perfect. He had his shadows—cold edges, a past dipped in violence, and a name that made people flinch. But being around him, for reasons I still don't fully understand, gave me space. Not just physically, but mentally. Emotionally.
I didn't have to run in high heels through blood-stained hotel corridors. I didn't have to smear on lipstick and play the seductress just to gather information for someone else. I didn't have to kneel, or smile through commands, or erase myself for someone else's gain.
I could just exist.
And that scared me more than any gun ever pointed at my head.
Because the moment you start to taste freedom, the moment you realize you're allowed to want something better, it changes everything. It ruins the part of you that accepted your cage. And I know now, with every part of me, I don't want to go back.
If I stay with Dylan—if I make this work, if I keep him close and stay sharp—I might never have to.
I might get out.
Out of Marcus's web. Out of the lies. Out of the memories that still crawl up my spine at night. I could fix what they broke in me. I could glue the feathers back to my wings, patch every torn place, and fly high. Away. Above everything they ever tried to bury me under.
But the thing about trauma is it doesn't die when the violence stops. It lingers.
The nights still come. The screaming, the cold floors, the bruises I couldn't explain. The touch of strangers. The forced smiles. The way my name stopped feeling like mine. Those things live in me like ghosts. And even now, sitting in this SUV in a new city beside a man who once terrified me… they try to claw their way back.
I can't erase them. I've accepted that.
But I can stop letting them run the show.
I'm tired of being afraid of my own story. Tired of flinching at memories. Tired of acting like I deserved any of it.
These demons, they're mine. And I'll either face them head-on, or they'll keep me small forever.
And I've been small long enough.
I've shrunk myself to survive. Bit my tongue, lowered my eyes, and let the world press its weight into my spine just to make it through the day. But survival isn't living. It's not freedom. It's a slow erasure of everything you once were, and I don't want to disappear anymore.
I want to stand tall in every room they told me I didn't belong in. I want to speak without trembling and want to look in the mirror and recognize the girl looking back. Not the one Marcus broke. Not the one they used.
But me.
I want my power back. Not the kind that comes from violence or control, but the quiet, unshakable kind that comes from knowing who I am and choosing to live anyway.
Because maybe healing isn't loud. Perhaps it's not some grand act of triumph. Maybe it's just choosing every single day not to give up on yourself.
And if I can do that, if I can just keep choosing myself, even when the memories scream—I know I'll get there.
Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.
But someday, I will rise. Whole. Unapologetic. Free.
Once Dylan is done getting back at Dustin… once I've paid off this so-called debt Marcus carved into my life, I'll walk away. Not just from the mission, but from the version of myself that was made to endure, not live.
I'll leave behind the girl who was built from bruises and silence. I'll shed her like old skin—tear it off, piece by piece, and wait for something new to grow.
A version of me is untouched. Unbroken. One who doesn't flinch when hands reach out. One who isn't afraid of kindness, who doesn't see danger in every room, who doesn't carry shame stitched into her body like a second soul.
I'll become the woman I was meant to be before they rewrote me. Someone who walks freely, who laughs without fear, who wakes up without the weight of survival pressing on her chest.
Someone whose life is treated gently.
Someone who finally feels worth it.
I was pulled out of my thoughts when Dylan cleared his throat softly beside me. It wasn't loud or impatient—just enough to ground me again.
"We're here, Ruth," he said, his tone gentle, almost like he knew my mind had wandered far away.
I blinked, adjusting quickly, and turned to look at him. He was already sitting straighter, checking the view outside the tinted window, composed as ever. For a second, I just watched him. Everything about him was so calm. So sure. And somehow, that made me feel steadier, too.
"Oh… yeah," I murmured, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear and sitting up.
The driver was already out of the car, opening the door for us. Cool, crisp air swept in, carrying with it a faint scent of salt, stone, and something floral I couldn't place. The sky above was a muted blue, pale and washed with thin clouds, and the buildings around us were tall but aged—charming in that way old cities are, like their bricks remembered everything.
Dylan stepped out first, buttoning his coat with an effortless kind of grace. I followed, my boots clicking softly against the curb. My eyes scanned the hotel. It was understated, not flashy or modern, but something about it felt timeless. Large arched windows, sandstone walls with creeping ivy, and old-fashioned lighting in the lobby that glowed with quiet warmth. It didn't beg for attention—it already had it.
We stepped through the glass doors into the lobby. The floors were polished stone, cool beneath my soles, and the scent of fresh flowers lingered in the air. Behind the reception desk, a young woman smiled at us, nervous but polite.
I approached first, glancing back to make sure Dylan was still behind me. He was standing a little to the side, his hands tucked in his coat pockets, eyes calm and unreadable.
"Hi," I said to the woman, offering a quick smile. "There should be a reservation under Ruth Danan."
She typed for a moment, then her expression faltered. Her lips pressed together apologetically before she looked up. "I'm very sorry, miss," she said in slow, careful English. "There was… a system problem. The suite you booked—it was taken. Two nights ago. It didn't update online."
I blinked, taking in her words. "It's… not available?" I asked just to make sure I heard correctly.
She shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. But—" she added quickly, "we have a deluxe suite. Twin beds. Very nice view. Same floor. It is available now."
A twist of frustration coiled in my chest—not because of the change in the room, but because I wanted things to go right. I wanted control, even if it was just over something as small as this.
I looked back at Dylan, preparing for him to raise an eyebrow, sigh, or say something dry about the inconvenience. But he didn't. His expression didn't even shift.
He stepped forward with the calm of someone who'd seen far worse than a scheduling error and said something to the receptionist in Turkish. I didn't understand the words, but his tone was smooth and assured, like whatever was wrong could be solved just by the way he spoke.
Then he looked at me, eyes steady. "It's fine," he said simply. "We'll take it."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and gave the receptionist a small nod. "Alright, the deluxe is fine. Thank you."
As she began updating the room, I stepped slightly to the side. Dylan hadn't made a single complaint—not even a joke about us sharing a room, or a smirk like he sometimes wore when teasing me. Just… stillness.
That kind of ease unnerved me more than irritation would have.
The fact that we were now sharing a suite, even with twin beds, felt like a line shifting quietly beneath our feet. A subtle change neither of us acknowledged out loud—but we both felt it.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he leaned against the counter with the same cool composure he always carried. For a man whose name could empty rooms, he didn't seem concerned at all about us sharing a space.
Maybe I shouldn't be either.
But still… I couldn't help but wonder how close the beds would be.
We stepped into the lift as the hotel staff loaded our bags onto a separate cart to be brought up shortly. The elevator doors closed with a soft chime, and the silence wrapped around us again, steady, quiet, and just slightly tense.
I glanced at Dylan, watching his reflection in the brushed metal of the elevator wall.
"I didn't know you'd be so chill about the inconvenience," I said, breaking the silence. My voice was light and casual, but the curiosity behind the words was real.
He looked at me, the faintest curve to his mouth. "We're still getting the same room," he replied calmly. "It's just a different layout. One space instead of two. Not a big deal."
His voice was unbothered, almost soothing in its simplicity.
"And besides," he added, glancing ahead at the elevator display, "it wasn't anyone's fault. System errors happen. I prefer to save my energy for things that require my attention. This didn't."
The way he said it—steady, mature, unaffected—surprised me a little.
"You have a different personality in every situation," I muttered with a soft smile. "One minute you're icy and unreadable, the next you're… kind of warm. Then suddenly you're nonchalant and surprisingly chill."
I turned to face him, teasing now. "You call me a double agent, but honestly, you're more like a triple imposter, Mr. Fynder."
His lips quirked at the corner, just barely. Not a full smile, but close. And in that small reaction, I saw a flicker of amusement—like he was letting me peek past the armor for just a moment.
The elevator doors glided open with a soft mechanical hum, revealing a hallway bathed in warm amber light. The carpet beneath our feet was plush, muffling our footsteps, and ornate sconces cast soft shadows along the cream-colored walls. It was the kind of quiet that almost echoed, the kind you didn't want to disturb. Dylan led the way, walking with the easy confidence of someone who never second-guessed where he was going—even in an unfamiliar place.
When we reached our suite, he slid the keycard into the door and paused. The lock clicked open with a sharp sound, and then, with a slight push, the door creaked open. He stepped aside, gesturing with a simple tilt of his head.
"Ladies first," he murmured, his tone dry.
I arched a brow at him as I passed. "You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome."
"Only when I'm feeling generous," he replied, following me in.
The suite unfolded around us—spacious, warm, and softly lit. The tall windows on the far wall were framed by sheer white curtains, swaying slightly from the faint breeze of the air vents. Beyond the glass, the rooftops of the old city rolled out toward the dusky mountains, kissed by the last strokes of evening sunlight. The fading sky was streaked with pale purples and soft orange, casting a dreamy glow over the entire room.
Two twin beds were set apart at either end of the suite, dressed in crisp white linens and thick, luxurious duvets. Between them was a shared lounge space: a velvet emerald sofa, a low brass-accented coffee table, and a modest minibar stocked with water, snacks, and a few tiny bottles of something strong. Off to the side, a door led to a sleek marble bathroom, lit faintly by a soft-glowing vanity light.
I looked around, letting out a low whistle. "Wow. For a 'deluxe' room mix-up, this is... pretty impressive."
Dylan stepped inside behind me, shrugging his coat off and tossing it casually onto the back of a chair. "It's comfortable," he said with that effortless calm he always carried. "And I like the view."
"You're suspiciously chill about this whole room situation," I said, turning to face him, arms crossing over my chest. "Not even a sarcastic comment? No dramatic protest about sharing space with a very dangerous woman?"
He glanced up from unbuttoning his cuff. "We're not strangers, Ruth. I've had people try to kill me and still slept beside them."
"Charming."
He smirked, eyes flicking to mine. "You're still alive, aren't you?"
I rolled my eyes and dropped onto the edge of the bed closest to the window, letting the mattress cushion beneath me. "You're ruining the drama of the whole 'reluctant roommates' trope. I was fully prepared for at least some territorial posturing."
"I don't waste energy on things that don't need fixing," he said simply, walking toward the window. He stood there for a moment, looking out, the skyline reflecting faintly against the glass, his posture casual but alert. "Malfunctions happen. You adapt."
I shook my head with a smile. "You've got a personality for every occasion, huh? One minute you're colder than stone, the next you're cooking breakfast and being weirdly calm about hotel booking failures. You call me a double agent, but really, you're the undercover one, Mr. Fynder."
He turned, arms crossing over his chest, one brow slightly raised. "Are you suggesting I'm unpredictable?"
"I'm saying you're like three different people depending on the hour," I said with a smirk. "You're like… the mafia's version of a mood ring."
That made something flicker across his face—a smile that didn't quite form but threatened to.
A knock interrupted the moment, and he moved to open the door. The hotel staff had arrived with our bags. He spoke to them briefly in Turkish, thanked them with a polite nod, and handed over a tip before closing the door behind them.
When he turned back, our eyes met across the suite, the light from the window casting a glow across his face. His expression was unreadable again—calm, but there was something behind his eyes, like a thought he wasn't saying out loud.
I raised an eyebrow, letting my words settle between us like a playful challenge wrapped in something heavier. "So. Guess we're roommates now."
Dylan didn't flinch or even blink at the implication. He just leaned casually against the doorframe, one ankle crossing over the other, the picture of effortless confidence. "If you snore," he said with a dry, straight-faced tone, "we're switching beds."
I let out a soft scoff, reaching for the nearest pillow and tossing it at him with exaggerated flair. "I don't snore."
He caught it—of course he did—without so much as a stumble, like even gravity worked in his favor. "That's what they all say," he replied coolly, placing the pillow neatly on the chair beside him as if we weren't in the middle of a mildly ridiculous argument.
My eyes narrowed. "You, on the other hand, look like someone who sleeps with one eye open and a gun under the pillow."
"Correction," he said, not missing a beat as he walked over to the minibar. His voice was calm, casual—too casual. "Two guns."
And just like that, a laugh slipped out of me. Unfiltered. Bright. Softer than I meant it to be. It filled the quiet space between us and echoed gently against the walls of the room. It startled me not just because of the sound, but because of how easy it felt. How real.
As he poured himself a glass of water, I watched him. Watched him. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled just below his elbows, and the way the light hit the curve of his forearm made it hard to look away. His movements were slow and deliberate, like everything he did had a rhythm only he understood. He leaned back against the marble counter, sipping his water like it was something stronger, something that might anchor him in place. And somehow, even when he was perfectly still, he looked like a storm waiting for the right moment to unravel.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, fingers curling loosely in the blanket beside me, and tried not to stare. Tried to act normal. But there was a tightness in my chest I couldn't explain and a slow warmth blooming beneath my skin that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. His presence had a gravity to it, subtle but undeniable.
For someone I was supposed to keep at arm's length, Dylan Fynder was becoming dangerously hard to define.
I wasn't supposed to feel this curious about him. I wasn't supposed to laugh when he teased me or notice the way his voice dipped when he spoke softly. But somehow, in the quiet hum of the suite, in the low lamplight reflecting off the windows, all those rules I made for myself felt paper-thin.
The silence that followed wasn't the awkward kind. It was full. Loaded. Charged with things neither of us was ready to say out loud.
"Okay, two guns, if you say so," I muttered with a smirk, shaking my head slightly as I picked up my tablet from the side table and tapped the screen to check his schedule. "Your meeting with the investors starts in about two hours. It's at a place called Ala Aksam, a restaurant, which looks pretty high-end. About a twenty-five-minute drive from here, depending on traffic."
Dylan, still sipping his water, nodded once and set the glass down with a soft clink. "Alright. I'll take a shower in the meantime," he said, turning toward the bathroom. Then he paused, eyes flicking back to me. "Do you need anything?"
His voice wasn't casual in the way most people's were; it was quiet and low, like he didn't waste effort on filler words. Still, the offer surprised me.
I shook my head, giving him a brief smile. "No, I'm good. I'll update Marcus about this trip… and check in on the other things we discussed," I added, my tone softening a little.
He held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then gave a small nod. "Alright."
I looked at him. "Do I have to come along with you to the meeting?"
He pulled his suit from the hanger, his movements calm and unhurried. "Well, it's not necessary," he said, glancing over at me, "but I'd want you to come along—just in case."
With that, he disappeared into the bathroom, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
I reached for my phone, the screen lighting up too bright against the dim hotel room. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I started typing—fast, a little too hard, like the pressure in my chest could be relieved through each keystroke.
"I'm on the trip with Dylan—he had a meeting here. I scheduled it and came along to manage everything as planned."
I paused, my thumb hesitating. I didn't want to sound panicked, but the words kept rushing forward.
"I'm trying to keep it low-key, I swear. But it's not easy when Dustin's men show up in broad daylight and start opening fire like we're in a damn movie. That could've sabotaged everything. It's not just risky; it's reckless."
The frustration surged as I hit send on the next line:
"What more do you want from me?"
I stared at the screen, heart pounding, jaw tight. I hadn't meant for it to sound so raw, but it did, and maybe that was okay. Maybe he needed to hear it that way.
I dropped the phone onto the blanket beside me and leaned back on the bed, exhaling slowly as I stared up at the ceiling. The faint sound of running water from the bathroom filled the room, steady and calming, in stark contrast to the storm inside my head.
I sat there with my eyes closed and my head resting against the headboard; my body felt slightly tired, but my mind was wide awake.
The soft click of the bathroom door opening pulled my attention, and instantly, I regretted looking. Dylan walked out, steam curling around him like a second skin, his hair damp and tousled as he rubbed it dry with a towel in one hand. The other towel was slung low around his hips, clinging to him just enough to preserve modesty but not nearly enough for my pulse to stay calm.
His chest was still dewy from the shower, water droplets slowly trailing down his torso, over the sharp lines of muscle that—unfortunately—I noticed. His skin was flushed from the heat, and every step he took into the cooler air of the suite seemed to carry the warmth with him. He looked too casual for how bare he was, moving like this was no big deal, as if he weren't standing half-naked in the middle of a shared room.
My eyes widened, and I snapped my gaze away like I'd just burned my retinas. "Jesus, Dylan!" I said, my voice higher than I intended. "We're sharing a room—why the hell didn't you take your suit in there with you? Maybe give a little warning before stepping out looking like that?"
I didn't need to look at him to know he was grinning.
He chuckled, his tone immediately dripping with amusement. "Don't flatter yourself," he said, completely unbothered as he crossed the room toward the dresser. "I only came out to grab my gel. And for your information,"—he gestured casually to the towel around his waist—"I am covered."
I rolled my eyes, still refusing to look at him again. "Barely," I muttered.
But he wasn't done. Not even close.
"Unless," he added with a sly tone, "you're just... distracted by my abs." There was a teasing lilt in his voice that made my cheeks burn hotter. "I mean, I do work out. A lot. I'm in pretty great shape. But wow, Ruth... I didn't think I'd catch you blushing that hard. Should I be worried?"
He let out a dramatic gasp. "I feel violated."
That did it.
Without turning to look at him, I snatched the nearest pillow and launched it blindly over my shoulder. It smacked him in the side.
"Shut up, Dylan," I said through gritted teeth, trying not to let the laughter that was bubbling in my throat escape. But my face betrayed me—there was a ridiculous smile already tugging at the corners of my lips.
Behind me, I heard him laugh again, low and rich, the kind of laugh that made everything feel light even when it shouldn't. There was no apology in his voice, just pure mischief.
"You've got great nerve telling me to shut up, Ruth," Dylan called over his shoulder, the usual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he picked up his gel from the dresser. The towel around his waist swayed slightly as he moved, still dripping faint droplets from his damp hair. "I thought you were a nervous wreck around me," he added, turning briefly to glance at me with amusement gleaming in his eyes. "Now you're quite the opposite."
I rolled my eyes, folding my arms across my chest but not bothering to hide the way my lips twitched with an almost-smile. "Well, that was before I found out you needed me for work stuff," I muttered, the edge in my voice more playful than annoyed, though I tried to make it sound like I meant it.
Internally, though, I smiled.
Dylan raised an eyebrow at my reply, clearly amused, then turned and walked back into the bathroom, his laughter echoing faintly off the tile. The door clicked shut behind him, and I exhaled slowly, staring at the spot he'd just been.
Something was infuriating about Dylan Fynder.
And, maybe, just a little bit fascinating to As Dylanlan started
As Dylan started getting ready, I finally pulled myself off the bed, stretching my arms slightly before heading over to the mirror. I caught my reflection and paused—surprisingly, I didn't look as worn out as I felt. Despite the long flight and the creeping edge of jet lag, I looked… sharp. Presentable. My shirt was still crisp, tucked neatly into my high-waisted trousers, and with the right coat, the outfit could pass for sleek and effortlessly professional.
I rummaged through my suitcase, fingers brushing past soft fabric until I found the structured coat I'd packed. It was a muted charcoal color, clean-cut, and paired well with the rest of what I was wearing. I slipped it on and turned slightly, checking the silhouette in the full-length mirror near the wall. Clean lines. Subtle confidence. It would do.
Leaning a little closer to the mirror, I refreshed my hair—loosening a few strands around my face, smoothing back the rest—and uncapped a gloss tube from my purse. As I gently applied it to my lips, I heard the bathroom door creak open behind me.
Dylan stepped out, fully dressed now in his tailored suit, the fabric hugging him in all the right places. He adjusted his cufflinks as he walked out with the kind of ease that made it seem like he'd never rushed for anything in his life.
His eyes flicked toward me in the mirror's reflection, and for just a moment, our eyes met.
The room didn't go silent, but it felt like it did.
His gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have.
"You clean up well," he said casually, but there was a shift in his tone—just the faintest softness underneath all the usual coolness. He straightened his collar, still watching me in the mirror. "That coat suits you. Looks sharp."
I met his eyes in the reflection, lips pressing together in an amused almost-smile. "Thanks. Figured I should try to look like I belong in a high-stakes investor meeting instead of, you know, like I just got off a ten-hour flight."
He tilted his head slightly, a small smirk playing at his mouth. "Could've fooled me. You don't look like you've flown a mile."
I turned toward him then, finishing off the last swipe of gloss. "Well, some of us recover like regular humans. Unlike others who walk out of steamy bathrooms like they've just stepped off a runway."
He chuckled under his breath, reaching for his watch. "It's a gift."
I grabbed my tablet and purse, taking one last look in the mirror before turning to face him fully. "Alright. Let's go impress some rich men in tailored suits."
He opened the door and gestured ahead with a half-smile. "After you, Danan."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't hide the small grin forming as I walked past him.
As I adjusted the strap of my purse and turned to leave, Dylan's voice stopped me.
"You know…" he said slowly, his tone a little different now—softer, quieter. "You're kind of hard to look away from when you're not rolling your eyes at me."
I blinked, half-smiling as I turned back to him. "Was that a compliment, or are you about to follow it up with an insult to balance the universe?"
He stepped closer, just enough to blur the professional space we'd kept all morning. His suit smelled faintly of cedarwood and clean soap. It made my chest feel a little too tight.
"No insult this time," he said, his gaze steady but no longer teasing. "Just… stating facts."
For a second, neither of us spoke. The moment hung gently between us, not heavy, not tense, just there, soft and unspoken.
Then he cleared his throat and stepped back with a crooked smile. "Don't get used to it. I still reserve the right to annoy you endlessly."
"Oh, I'm counting on it," I replied with mock relief. "Wouldn't know what to do if you suddenly turned polite."
He let out a laugh, real, low, and slightly caught off guard. "God help me, I think you enjoy giving me a hard time."
I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at him playfully. "Careful. You're starting to sound like someone who likes my company."
Dylan looked at me intensely. No smirk. No wall. Just this faint flicker of something he hadn't shown in a long time.
"Maybe I do," he said simply.