Page 34 of Fat Arranged Mate
"I know." No argument, just acknowledgment as he steps back, giving me space while remaining close enough to catch me if needed.
Inside, he moves to the kitchen without discussion, filling a glass with hot water and adding a spoonful of honey from thecupboard. He places it on the coffee table in front of where I've sunk onto the couch, then retreats to give me privacy.
The hot honey soothes my raw throat, the simple kindness more affecting than grand gestures would be. I hear him in the kitchen, opening cabinets, the quiet domestic sounds grounding me further in the present.
When he returns, he carries a plate with toast and sliced apples—simple foods that won't overwhelm a system still reeling from panic. He sets it beside the water without comment, then takes the armchair across from me rather than the space beside me on the couch. Giving me room. Not hovering.
"Thank you," I say again, the words inadequate for what he's offered.
He nods, expression unreadable but not cold.
"When you're ready," he says, "tell me what you found. But only when you're ready."
The consideration in his voice, the absence of pressure or impatience, brings unexpected heat to my eyes. This isn't the Dylan I thought I knew—the rigid, uncompromising soldier who sees only threats and targets. This is someone who knows exactly what to do when someone breaks, who understands how to help without smothering.
"Why are you being so..." I search for the word, finding none that fit.
"So what?" he asks when I don't continue.
"Nice," I finish lamely. "To me."
Something flickers across his features—surprise, perhaps, or confusion. He thinks about my question for a while. The seconds tick by, but somehow, it isn’t as awkward as it might have otherwise been.
“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “We’re a team.”
"Yes," I acknowledge. "But I thought you hated me."
His eyebrows draw together slightly. "I don't hate you."
The simple statement, delivered without drama or qualification, settles in my chest like a warm stone. I look down at my hands, unsure how to process this shifting ground between us.
"You should eat something," he says after a moment, changing the subject with gentle practicality. "Then rest if you need to. The information can wait an hour."
I nod, accepting both the food and the temporary reprieve it represents. As I bite into a slice of apple, I find myself studying him covertly—the vigilant eyes that miss nothing, the hands that can both fight and offer comfort, the rigid control that somehow bends without breaking when needed.
The realization comes unbidden, terrifying in its clarity: I feel safe with him. Despite our differences, despite our conflicts, some primal part of me recognizes him as protection rather than a threat.
The implications of this shift are too complex to examine now, too potentially devastating to my carefully constructed boundaries. So, I focus instead on the simple truth of the present moment—the food he provided, the space he respects, the steady presence that anchored me when I was drowning.
The rest, with all its complications, can wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 12 - Dylan
The warehouse looms against the twilight sky, a hulking silhouette of corrugated metal and broken windows. According to county records, it once housed a lumber processing operation before the mill closed fifteen years ago. Now it sits at the edge of town, officially abandoned but suspiciously well-maintained.
I've been watching for three hours, concealed in the dense undergrowth fifty yards from the loading dock. Close enough to observe, far enough to avoid detection. Patience is second nature after years of security work—the ability to remain perfectly still, to regulate breathing, to become part of the landscape rather than an intruder upon it.
At 9:17 PM, headlights sweep across the gravel access road. Two pickup trucks approach, followed by a panel van with its running lights off. The vehicles circle to the rear loading bay, where the van backs up to a rolling door that rises on silent tracks.
The man who emerges from the first truck is familiar—Sheriff Donovan, out of uniform but unmistakable in his movements. He scans the perimeter with practiced efficiency while four others exit the remaining vehicles. No Guardian pins visible tonight. This operation exists beyond their public facade.
I adjust my position slightly, straining to hear their conversation over the ambient sounds of night insects and distant traffic.
"—sure no one followed you?" Donovan asks the driver of the van, a wiry man whose face remains shadowed.
"Clean run all the way from Baker County," the driver confirms. "No problems."
"Good. Let's get them inside quickly."
