Colin Levesque is at loose ends. He's finished university, but has no career; he adores romance novels, but he's crap at relationships; and his prickliness is a detriment at the cafe where he's making ends meet. He also has a crush on his regular Da...
"I do apologize again," he mutters. "I have a wretched temper and I must control it better."
"It was an accident."
He does a sort of half-shrug, head shake move that's awkward as hell, and oh fuck, cute. Dammit. Dammit.
The Rules, I remind myself firmly. Don't forget The Rules.
"Been wondering," my mouth says without any input from my brain, and okay, so that shot of whatever it was the paramedic gave me before she started packing my wounds is kicking in strong because I can't feel my face any more. "Why do you come in and stare at me every morning?"
"Stare at you?" he echoes like an offended maiden aunt.
It's hilarious, so I laugh. And then I wince, and grab my elbow harder. Goddamnit, that hurts. The paramedic heaves a sigh, and wraps my arm in a sling.
"Ouch," I complain as she ties the knot behind my neck.
"Your fault. I told you not to move it."
"I'll make sure he stays still," the dragon says to her with a sort of condescending solemnity.
Is he taking the piss?
I think he's taking the piss.
"You're not my keeper," I snipe back, smirking to show that I'm teasing, that I'm trying to get that light mood back. That I want him to lean back in and press all of that delicious body heat against me.
"I've injured you. It's on me to ensure—"
"Fun as that would be, this isn't actually a draconic romance," I interrupt. I want to put my hand on his knee. Good thing it's trapped in the sling. "I get it. You're being nice, but like, you don't owe me a debt of honor or any of that possessive Harlequin stuff."
A smile breaks out across his face, and thank fuck. This one is a sarcastic little thing, curling up just one side of his mouth. "Read many draconic Harlequins, do you?"
"Man, shut up," I grump, but I can't seem to control my matching grin. "You can't shame me for my taste. There's nothing wrong with liking happily ever afters."
"Nothing at all," he murmurs, but it's so soft I decide he didn't mean for me to hear it. Fine, I can pretend. I'm in too much pain to pick a fight, anyway. Or, to continue picking it, or... whatever this is that we're doing.
We're not actually fighting, are we?
My stupid brain-weasels grab that idea between their sharp teeth and run away with it, and suddenly I wonder if I've misread this whole thing. What if he doesn't even want to be here?
I hate taking pity-favors from people. If that's what this is, I'd rather do this alone. No one needs to see me being whiny. It's not cool, and it's not sexy. And I want very much to be cool and sexy for him.
Choking on my humiliation, I say softly: "You didn't need to come."
"I really did," he replies, infuriatingly calm.
"We'll probably have to wait for hours."
"I would have been sitting in the café, anyway."
"I will be annoying," I threaten.
"I'm certain you will be."
"I hum terrible classical music earworms when I'm bored."
"I especially like your Peter and the Wolf when you're mopping," he says, but it's small, careful. Despite him being taller than me, and fit as hell, everything about him is carefully controlled. Gentle, that's the word. Precise. From the shine on his shoes to the crease ironed into his slacks, to the usual careful lay of his hair, this man has never once looked or sounded anything but mindfully curated.
He makes me feel loud, messy, and childish. I thought dragons were supposed to be brash, confident, and charismatic, but he's never been demanding, and I've never heard him speak above a gentle murmur (unless he's yelling about fire extinguishers).
He catches my look of confusion and says,"My apologies."
"No, it's—" I start, and then literally bite my tongue because I have no idea how to end that sentence.
Is it fine? Beanevolence is a public space, and I don't have to hum at work if I don't want to. So is it creepy he's noticed? Or is it charming? I have no idea.
"You didn't answer. About why you come into the café every day?" I prompt. He clears his throat and a flush climbs up from his collar. It's not red enough to be scales. Is he embarrassed? "What, you're such a wealthy man of leisure you have nothing better to do?" I joke.
"Quite," is all he says.
Holy shit, what? I have the time to think, but not say, because the ambulance stops.
"Alright, everyone out," the paramedic says, stepping over us to fling open the back door. I don't blame her. The burnt-coffee reek is pretty acrid.
The dragon descends first and holds a hand up for me to take and, yeah, okay, I've got a sling now and it friggin hurts to move so, sure, I can let him Mr. Darcy me onto the sidewalk. There's that smallness again. He's not even a bit impatient for me to accept his help. I don't want to think about it. I also make a point of not letting myself think about his skin, or its warmth, or, or what shape his fingers are when I finally slide my hand into his.
Nope. This is not a tropey repressed hand-touch moment. I refuse.
The paramedic walks us through getting signed in at the admission desk, then we're directed toward the uncomfortable waiting room.
"Plastic chairs," I whine as I sink into one, just because I can.
I'd promised the dragon I'd be a bastard. I might as well live up to it. It'll be fun, if nothing else.
The dragon looks around and then down at his blackened hands. "Would you mind if I—?"
"Go. Scrub." I wave him off.
"Will you—?"
"I'm fine." I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket. There's already half a dozen texts from Hadi, and one each from Gemma and Stuart, who must have heard the news already, and a missed call from Mum.
He hesitates, and I pointedly bow my head to make it clear that I've already dismissed him, turning my attention to the family group chat:
im 👌 oven caught 🔥 not my fault
The dragon doesn't have a tail, but when I glance up, it still looks like he's walking up the hall with one tucked between his legs.
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