Page 44 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Of course." I gather my book and empty teacup, suddenly desperate for retreat. "I'll turn in early."
We navigate the narrow hallway with careful precision, maintaining maximum possible distance as we pass each other. It's almost comical—two adults behaving like magnets with reversed polarity, pushing away with the same force that seems to constantly draw us together.
In my bedroom, I change into sleep clothes—oversized t-shirt, soft cotton shorts—and attempt to focus on my book. The words blur into meaningless patterns, my attention straying to the muffled sounds of Dylan moving around the cottage. Water running in the bathroom. Floorboards creaking beneath his weight. The soft click of his bedroom door.
Minutes later, his voice drifts through the thin wall separating our rooms. He must be on the secure phone, speaking to Connor back at Silvercreek. I try not to listen—truly, I do—but the timbre of his voice carries easily, and fragments reach me despite my best intentions.
"...going as planned. No, we haven't located Miles yet, but..."
I should put in earphones. Or turn on music. Something to block the intrusion into his privacy.
Instead, I find myself perfectly still, ears straining to catch each word.
"...think he's safe, based on what we overheard yesterday..."
A pause. Connor must be speaking.
"No, nothing concrete yet on the Guardian operations, but..."
Another pause, longer this time. Then Dylan's voice changes, dropping lower and carrying a note I've never heard from him before.
"That's not the problem, Con. I'm handling the mission objectives fine. It's just..."
My heartbeat quickens inexplicably.
"Yeah. Yeah, exactly that." A soft sound that might be a frustrated laugh. "It's becoming a distraction."
My stomach drops. I'm the distraction. My inexperience, my hesitation, my pacifist principles—all liabilities to someone like Dylan, trained for efficient action and clear-cut decisions.
"No, it's not that she's incompetent. The opposite, actually."
Wait. What?
"She's... I don't know. Different than I expected. Stronger."
Heat rises in my face for entirely new reasons.
"The problem is I can't stop thinking about her." His voice drops even lower, barely audible through the wall. "Yesterday we were hiding, and she was pressed against me for maybe fifteen minutes, and I just... Fuck, Connor."
Oh.
"Yeah, laugh it up, asshole." But there's no heat in his words. "You're not the one stuck in a tiny cottage with someone who drives you crazy in every possible way."
Every possible way? My pulse hammers in my throat, body suddenly flushed with awareness.
"No, I haven't done anything about it. We're on mission. She's my lottery match. And she probably still hates me."
I press my fingers against my lips, unsure whether I want to laugh or scream. I don't hate him. I'm not sure I ever did, not really. Feared him, yes. Disagreed with him, absolutely. But hate?
"Yeah, well, telling me to just 'get it out of my system' isn't exactly helpful advice, considering the circumstances."
Get it out of his system? What exactly is Connor suggesting? The implications send a rush of heat spiraling through me, settling low in my abdomen with insistent pressure.
"Look, forget I said anything. I'll handle it."
His voice grows fainter, suggesting he's moved away from the wall we share. The conversation continues, shifting to operational details I can no longer distinguish. Just as well—I've heard more than enough. More than I should have.
I press my heated cheeks against my pillow, mind racing with this new information. Dylan thinks about me. Wants me, if I'm interpreting correctly. The knowledge creates a strange, swooping sensation in my stomach, equal parts terror and something dangerously like anticipation.
