Page 68 of Undone

“Antsy, are ya?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

I reached for my bag, but before I could grab it, he leaned down, his face inches from mine.

For a moment, I just watched him, letting myself take in the way his dark hair fell over his forehead, that lopsided smile of his, the way his T-shirt clung to his strong frame, outlining every inch of power beneath.

“You just going to sit there and stare?” he teased. “Or should we go inside so I can make you a drink?”

I laughed, trying to ignore the way my body reacted to the closeness of his. “It’s hard to move when you’re practically on top of me.”

He reached over me, and with a single motion, the seatbelt retracted, the click breaking the silence. His gaze stayed locked on mine as he stepped back and extended his hand. I placed my hand in his, and he guided me out of the car and into the house.

Inside, he flicked on the light, filling the space with an inviting glow. His home carried an unspoken sense of ease, a place that felt safe, as though nothing bad could reach us here.

He strode into the kitchen and opened a cabinet, revealing an assortment of liquor bottles.

“Pick your poison,” he said, his tone light, though something unspoken lingered beneath it.

I leaned against the counter, grinning. “Tequila.”

He glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. “You’ve been spending too much time with my sister.”

“What can I say? She has good taste.”

“Margarita?” he asked, grabbing a bottle.

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

He quickly made two drinks, handing me mine with a faint clink of ice against the glass. His eyes followed the slow sweep of my tongue as I licked a trace of salt from the rim.

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a comment, but he turned away, heading toward the couch.

I followed, settling in beside him as he grabbed the remote. He scrolled through the options, his movements unhurried, until a familiar title popped up—the show we watched together back in Seattle, back when life was simpler.

He glanced at me, a silent question in his expression. I nodded, and he hit play, the opening theme sparking a bittersweet pang of nostalgia for that weekend.

“Still hate him?” I teased as one of the more controversial characters appeared, his smug grin lighting up the screen.

“Hate is a strong word,” Dorian replied, settling deeper into the cushions. “But yeah, he’s the worst.”

I raised an eyebrow. “This from the guy who yelled at the TV every time he made a bad decision?”

“That was constructive criticism,” he shot back, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh, sure,” I said, feigning seriousness. “Because shoutingJust jump off the cliff alreadyis totally helpful.”

“It would’ve been faster, and less painful for the rest of us.”

We laughed, the sound mingling with the dialogue on the screen, but there was an undercurrent now, something unspoken weaving through the ease of our connection. It wasn’t the show, or the teasing, but the way we fit so naturally into each other’s lives.

In the middle of the episode, Dorian’s hand brushed mine. The touch was light, hesitant. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I looked over at him, my heart seemingly thudding louder than the dialogue on the TV.

“You know,” he started, “I’ve tried to stay away from you.” He shook his head and continued. “I mean, when we met, you were still with…”

“John,” I said. “You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”

His jaw tensed. “Just the fucking sound of his name out of your mouth pisses me off,” he growled.

The words hit me square in the chest. The TV faded into the background.

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