Page 47 of Unearthed Dreams
Her blush deepened, eyes darting away. “Oh god.”
“No, I mean it.” I flipped to another marked page. “Here, where he’s teaching her sword fighting, and she says ‘Five centuries of experience doesn’t make you right about everything.’ The tension is palpable.”
“I wasn’t... I mean, when I wrote that...” she stuttered, then took a deep breath. “It’s not about us.”
“Us?” I raised an eyebrow, watching her squirm.
“I wrote this months ago,” she protested weakly.
“So you’ve always had a thing for older men?” Watching herwrite about an experienced man teaching a younger woman... it hit close to home.
“No!” Her eyes flew to mine, wide and earnest. “I just... I wanted to explore how someone with centuries of experience would handle falling for someone so new to everything. How he’d have to be so careful, so aware of her inexperience, but also respect her ability to make her own choices...”
The parallel wasn’t lost on either of us.
“Charlie...”
She stared at the manuscript, fingers tracing my messy handwriting in the margins, her shoulders bunched, and gnawing at her bottom lip.
“It’s stupid,” she muttered. “I mean, ten years isn’t five centuries.”
I barked out a laugh, harsh and sudden in the quiet bar. “No, but sometimes it feels like it.”
Those stormy eyes snapped to mine. “Why?”
Christ. How could I explain the weight of everything I’d lived through? The foster homes, the drugs, watching the woman I’d loved spiral into addiction, Billy’s decline...
But she was still watching me with those clear blue eyes, waiting. No judgment, just... curiosity. Understanding.
“Because at your age...” I ran a hand through my hair, struggling to find the right words. “At your age, I was already married. Already fucked up in ways you can’t imagine.”
“So tell me.”
The simple request knocked the air from my lungs. Three words, spoken so softly, held the weight of everything I’d been trying to avoid.
I studied her face—so open, so earnest. No one had everjust... asked. Not like this. Not with genuine interest instead of morbid curiosity.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Yes, I do.” Steel lined her voice. “I want to know you. All of you. Not just the parts you think are safe to show me.”
This girl. This fucking girl who wrote about immortal commanders learning to trust, about age gaps and experience gaps and somehow made it all make sense...
“The things I’ve done, Charlie...” I leaned back, putting distance between us. “The person I was...”
“Was,” she emphasized, leaning forward to close the gap I’d tried to create. “Past tense. Just like my commander had centuries of violence in his past. Doesn’t mean he didn’t deserve love.”
A harsh laugh escaped me. “You comparing me to your hero?”
“No.” Those blue eyes held mine steadily. “My hero is fictional. You’re real. And real is... messier. More complicated. But also more worth it.”
The quiet conviction in her voice undid me.
Here was this girl—this brilliant, beautiful girl—who could have anyone. That Trevor kid. Some young college graduate with a clean past and bright future. Instead, she was looking at me like... like I was worth something.
“You write fantasy,” I said finally. “Happy endings.”
“Yes.” She reached across the table, her small hand covering mine. “Because I believe in them.”
