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I watch his reaction carefully, noting the subtle shift in his expression. "Change has a way of revealing hidden facets of ourselves."
His response, though measured, hints at a willingness to explore the uncharted territory ahead. Yet, the tension in his demeanor suggests a reluctance, a wariness that adds layers to the enigma that is Dylan.
"I appreciate your honesty, Dylan. There's a lot beneath the surface, isn't there?"
We go back to our banner, however, beneath the surface of camaraderie, I sense a shift in Dylan's demeanor. His brooding nature, which adds an alluring layer to his personality, begins to create a subtle tension. As the evening unfolds, I tread carefully, navigating the delicate dance between shared laughter and the unspoken complexities that lie within the shadows of the post-Shadow Syndicate underworld.
Dylan's openness is evident, yet the enigmatic layers that define him become more pronounced. The air crackles with unspoken possibilities, leaving me intrigued by the intricate balance between his willingness to join me and the restrained tension that lingers beneath the surface of our burgeoning connection. The evening at Velvet Enigma becomes a tableau of subtle nuances, hinting at the complexities that may shape the path ahead.
When the waiter returns to ask if we want dessert, I grimace.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want anything,” Dylan says.
I laugh. “You’re wrong. I don’t know which to get.”
“Which ones are you torn between?”
“The chocolate decadence cake.”
“Of course.”
I laugh again. “And the crème brûlée trio.”
“Then you have our order,” Dylan declares to the waiter.
“Very well.”
“Dylan…”
“We can share them,” he says. “I’ve had the cake before. It’s sinfully rich, layered with velvety ganache, and served with a scoop of Madagascar vanilla ice cream. It’s beyond tempting.”
“Have you had the trio before?”
“No.”
“It’s delightful.”
“What is the trio?”
“Classic vanilla, lavender-infused, and espresso-flavored crème brûlée.”
He groans. “I can’t wait.”
We indulge our desserts, even feeding each other some despite our sharing them, and the dinner is mostly a highlight.
I can’t afford, however, to be dating someone. If Dylan can’t be a player in my plans, I will have to let him go.
Dylan pays for our meal and places his hand on the small of my back as we leave, leading me straight to my car. I unlock it, but Dylan subtly turns me around, pressing me up against my car, lifts my chin, and kisses me.
Thank God he pressed me against the car because if not for that, I might’ve grabbed onto him so I wouldn’t fall down. It’s been a long time since a kiss made me weak in the knees, and clinging to him would’ve been a sign of weakness.
“Text me that you got home safely,” Dylan murmurs.
“You two.”
As I turn out of the lot, I touch my lips. They still tingle from that kiss.
I might not want to let him go.
