Finally, he spoke. "I need time to process this." He glanced up and the pink from his cheeks had spread downward.
It wasn't a rejection but neither was it an acceptance.
"Okay."
"It's not that I don't ummm care for you." He shook his head. "I recently got out of a relationship where someone lied to me for months. I nearly died today and we had a huge fight. And now you're telling me you have feelings for me." He set down his mug. "It's a lot, Dawson."
"I understand."
"Do you?" There was something almost pleading in his voice. "Because I don't. I need to think and to figure outwhat I'm feeling without the adrenaline and the exhaustion and everything else clouding it."
"Take all the time you need." I meant it, even as my wolf whined in protest. "I'm not going anywhere."
He nodded slowly. "I should try to sleep. We have to be back at the station in a few hours."
"Yeah."
He moved toward the doorway. "For what it's worth? I'm glad you told me. Even if I don't know what to do with it yet."
Then he was gone, and I was alone in my kitchen, having just confessed my affection to my fated mate who needed time to think about what I'd said.
My wolf wasn't happy we hadn't mated and marked Parker but he was glad we'd been honest. Now I had to wait and hope that when Parker gave me his answer, it matched mine.
EIGHT
PARKER
I’d gotten maybe two hours of sleep after our kitchen conversation, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying Dawson’s words.
I have feelings for you. Romantic feelings.
The confession had caught me completely off guard, even though Cerys had been telling me for weeks that Dawson was interested. I'd been so focused on protecting myself from getting hurt again, that I'd missed all the signs.
Or maybe I'd been ignoring them on purpose.
I stared at the ceiling of Dawson's guest room. I was in Dawson's house, wearing his clothes, having just been told he cared about me, and tried to sort through the tangle of feelings in my chest. There was fear. Being with someone new and risking my heart again terrified me.
But underneath the fear was something else. Something that had been building since that second week when I'd watched Dawson humming over his weather models, completely absorbed in his work. Whatever that was, it had grown stronger, every time he'd looked at me with those intense green eyes and when he'd made me feel safe instead of scared.
I'd told myself I wasn't ready. That it was too soon, that I was still healing.
But Carys had been right. At some point, "not ready" became an excuse.
Dawson wasn't Callan. He didn't play games. He'd saved my life and then yelled at me because he'd been terrified of losing me. He'd confessed his feelings at four in the morning in his kitchen and told me I didn't have to feel the same way and that he wasn't trying to pressure me.
Who did that? Who lay their heart out and stepped back to give the other person space? Someone who cared and was willing to wait.
My body responded when he was near. My breath caught in my throat when he was close and his rare smiles were gifts intended just for me. I thought about how good it had felt to have his arms on me last night, and how right it had been to wear his clothes and drink his hot chocolate and feel safe in his home.
I thought about the alternative which was walking away, maintaining my walls, and letting fear dictate my choices. And I didn't want that. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life wondering "what if." Dawson had taken a risk by telling me how he felt. Maybe it was time I took one too.
My phone buzzed and I was thrown into work mode.
We drove back to the station in Dawson's truck. The morning light revealed the full extent of the storm's damage. Downed trees and power lines littered the roads, smashed glass covered the pavements and houses were missing roofs.
We pulled into the parking lot. "Thanks again for letting me stay." This wasn't the time to tell him the conclusion I'd reached.
"Anytime." His back was so rigid almost as though one movement and his spine would snap. He was waiting for me to say something about his confession and judging by the tension in his shoulders, suspecting I was going to reject him.
