Liam had barely stepped foot in front of his house when he paused.
There, standing by the porch with the confidence of a man about to receive a Nobel Prize, was Dickson—but this was not the Dickson he knew. No hoodie, no wrinkled shirt, no stained jeans.
He was wearing a fitted dark navy suit with polished brown shoes, his usually wild hair neatly slicked back, and in his hand… a single red rose.
"What in God's name…"
When Dickson spotted him, he immediately straightened up and began brushing off his sleeves like he had just wrestled a dust demon. He looked Liam dead in the eye and—like a damn steam engine—started ranting.
"Where the fuck were you, huh? I've been standing here like a damn statue for over an hour, you inconsiderate bastard!"
Liam groaned, already rubbing his temple. He couldn't believe this man was dressed like he was going to propose to someone at a billionaire's wedding—and still cursing like a sailor.
