Page 25 of Buried Past

That comment earned a slight smile. It showed me that whatever walls Dorian had built around himself weren't impenetrable. There was enough room to plant a seed and trust that time and patience might help it grow.

"About yesterday morning," Dorian said, his voice quieter than before.

I looked at him, and he held my gaze for half a second—long enough to feel the memory of the kiss hover between us—before shaking his head. "Never mind."

I hid my smile behind another forkful of eggs. He didn't need to finish the sentence. That he'd almost said something was its own kind of progress.

He stood abruptly, leaving his plate half-finished. "Bathroom?"

"You know where it is."

He disappeared down the short hallway, and I heard the soft click of the door closing behind him. The apartment felt different without his restless energy filling it—not empty, but quieter in a way that made me notice the absence of things I'd been unconsciously tracking, like the sound of his breathing.

I stared at the two coffee mugs sitting side by side on the table. Mine, ceramic and chipped along the rim from too many mornings and not enough care. His was the good one with the Fire Department logo. I usually saved it for visitors who never came. They sat, mismatched but somehow right, like they'd been waiting for each other all along.

Somewhere in the quiet, I'd started thinking about Dorian and me as an us.

Three days ago, he'd been a John Doe bleeding in the wreckage of someone else's violence. Now, I pictured him at Ma's dining room table, probably charming her into feeding him thirds while Miles cracked jokes and Marcus asked his thoughtful questions. The image came so easily it startled me—not because it felt wrong, but because it didn't.

I'd spent years keeping people at arm's length, perfecting the art of being helpful without becoming attached. Some called it professional distance. It was the ability to care for people without carrying them home with you, an essential skill for anyone who made a living pulling strangers from wreckage.

With Dorian, that distance had collapsed before I'd noticed it happening.

I'd held plenty of broken people, but now, I wasn't just helping—I was choosing. I'd decided to create space for someone after the saving was over.

The bathroom door opened, and Dorian emerged looking slightly more composed. His hair was wet from the sink—he'd splashed water on his face. When he looked at me, something had changed.

"Feel better?" I asked.

"Getting there." He paused beside the couch. "Eight months since I ran from Hoyle's network. Less than a week since the bullet on the freeway should've ended all of this. Thank you. For changing the story."

I wanted to tell him he didn't need to thank me for basic decency. Sharing breakfast wasn't charity, nor was the quiet company of someone who understood that healing happened in fragments, not dramatic revelations.

"Yeah," I said simply. "Anytime."

Chapter eight

Dorian

Ilistened to Matthew performing his evening customs in the kitchen—cupboard doors closing with soft thuds and water running in brief bursts. He was making dinner. Again. For both of us. Like it was ordinary.

Nothing about it was ordinary.

I shifted on the couch, testing how the stitches pulled when I moved. The pain had settled into something manageable, present but not overwhelming. My body was healing, according to Matthew's daily assessments.

The kitchen sounds stopped. Matthew appeared in the doorway, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, dish towel slung over one shoulder.

He wiped his hands on the towel. "Five more minutes. Stir-fry. Frozen vegetables. Nothing fancy."

I nodded. He studied my face momentarily, his steady brown eyes missing nothing. Then he disappeared back into the kitchen, and I heard the sizzle of vegetables hitting hot oil.

My pulse kicked up—not from fear, but from something worse. I was afraid of being safe.

Of sitting in a room without calculating the distance to every exit.

Of breathing without wondering if each exhale might be my last.

Pathetic.

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