Clara went quiet this time, her gaze fixed on the table. She sat there for what felt like ages before finally asking, “How’s Aiden?”
She already knew the answer—she’d just called the hospital herself. She was only asking to change the subject.
Dylan was turning his fork and knife in his hands before he finally set them down, his whole posture heavy, as if he was carrying something he couldn’t say out loud.
Then it hit her: he’d just asked her something, hadn’t he? And she hadn’t answered.
With Dylan, not answering was as good as saying no. He never seemed to expect good things, especially when it came to feelings.
Clara took a breath. “Dylan.”
He didn’t say anything, just kept his eyes lowered, looking lost.
She tried again, “Are you full?”
“Yeah.”
At least he answered that.
Clara reached out, running her hand over his shirt—half the buttons were already undone. “If you’re done eating, let’s keep going. Just skip work today.”
He looked surprised she was taking the lead. He hesitated for a few seconds before finally taking her hand.
Clara didn’t bother checking his expression—she already knew it wouldn’t be great—so she just cupped his face and kissed him.
Dylan was a lot like Z in one way: if things were good in bed, everything else seemed easier to talk about.
They kept it up until evening, and by then Clara was completely spent. She slumped against the sofa, practically asleep, while Dylan—shirt barely buttoned, just his dress pants on—was carefully tending to the bandage on her shoulder.
Her shoulder was almost healed; she usually bounced back fast. She tried to lift her arm to stop him, but she didn’t even have the strength. She just let herself lean into his touch, mumbling a little and enjoying being taken care of.
When he finished, he scooped her up to the bathroom for a shower, making sure her wound stayed dry.
Afterward, as he carried her to bed, she finally caved. “I really can’t do this anymore. Rain check?”
Comments
The readers' comments on the novel: Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run