Page 134 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

That remained true.

It was simply no longer the whole truth.

17

QUINN

THE VIEW FROM A DRAGON'S BACK

The ride back into the city was nearly silent.

Max was passed out in the back of the van, stretched on his side with one paw twitching every few minutes, probably dreaming about fields, stolen branches, and successfully tackling a billionaire dragon shifter into the grass. His exhaustion was complete, and I envied that. I, on the other hand, sat beside Rafe with my hands folded in my lap, pretending I hadn’t recently asked whether he had ever dated anyone seriously.

It was a normal question people asked all the time after picnics in enchanted-looking clearings where dogs rediscovered youth. What wasn’t normal was for men with impossible cheekbones to admit they had never made room for love because they took it too seriously to do halfway.

Great. Wonderful. Very breezy.

The city gathered around us again, traffic thickening, buildings rising closer together. Moonlight slid off glass and brick. Rafe sat beside me, quiet and composed, his jacket folded over one knee, his gaze turned toward the window, watching the road and not also thinking about every word we had said in the grass.

I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to apologize or ask fifteen follow-up questions and request a diagram. My body was tired in that deep, sweet way that came from sunlight and fresh air, but my mind kept returning to the careful honesty of his answer.

My life has never felt arranged to make room for someone who didn’t already belong to it.

It should have been a warning. Maybe it was. Rafe Virelli had just told me, in the most precise and devastating way possible, that he didn’t do casual attachment. He didn’t drift into romance because the timing was nice and the lighting was good. He thought love meant rearranging a life.

And I, a woman currently rearranging my grocery budget around Max’s joint supplements, should have found that intimidating enough to back away.

Instead, I kept thinking what it might be like to belong to the life he rearranged.

It was a terrible thought. Horrifying. Bad use of brain space.

When the van stopped in front of my building, Max raised his head, blinked at the sidewalk, and gave a disappointed huff.

“Come on, handsome,” I murmured. “Back to reality.”

Rafe walked around and opened the van door before the driver could, then offered me his hand.

I hesitated for half a second, because I wanted to take it and not let go. I took it. His hand closed around mine, warm and steady, and he helped me down. Then he released me. Rafe had the emotional discipline of a monk and the timing of a man personally committed to ruining my peace.

Max descended carefully behind me, shook himself once, and leaned against my leg.

“He’ll sleep well,” Rafe said.

“He earned it. You should sleep well too.” I looked up at Rafe. “Some of us were tackled by a senior citizen today.”

Rafe’s mouth moved. “I let that happen, thank you very much.”

“He trusts you,” I said, the words coming out before I had fully considered them.

Rafe looked at Max, then at me. “Does he?”

“Yes.” My voice softened despite me. “He doesn’t play like that with people he doesn’t trust.”

Something passed across his face, too quiet to put a name to. Whatever it was made my chest feel strangely tight.

We went inside.

The lobby door latched behind us with a satisfying click, and I tried very hard not to notice Rafe noticing it. The repaired door had become a tiny, humiliating monument to his thoughtfulness. A hardware-based threat to my emotional stability.