Page 88 of The Wrong Man

“I was thinking.” The words feel clumsy in my mouth. “Maybe we could watch a film. If you wanted. I have whiskey. We could just... relax.”

I sound like an idiot. A nervous teenager asking someone to prom, not a grown man who makes people scream for a living.

Dylan blinks at me. “A film?”

“Yes. There’s a television.” I gesture at the flatscreen I rarely use. “I don’t know what’s available, but we could find something. Or not. If you’d rather not. It was just a thought.”

Stop talking, Dante. You’re rambling. You never ramble.

But Dylan is smiling. That small, genuine smile that I’m becoming hopelessly addicted to.

“That sounds nice,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a new wave of nervousness. He said yes. He actually said yes.

“Good. That’s... good.” I clear my throat. “I’ll get the whiskey.”

I escape to the kitchen and take a moment to compose myself, hands braced against the counter. This is ridiculous. I’ve faced down armed men without breaking a sweat. I’ve walked into rooms knowing that violence was inevitable and felt nothing but cold focus.

But the thought of sitting on a sofa and watching a film with Dylan makes my palms sweat.

I pour two generous glasses of whiskey and carry them back to the living room. Dylan has shifted position, making room. An invitation. I settle beside him, close enough that I could touch him if I reached out. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.

“What do you want to watch?” I ask, handing him his glass.

“I don’t mind. You choose.”

I flick through the options, not really seeing them. My entire awareness is focused on the man beside me. The way he cradles his whiskey glass in both hands. The way he’s angled his body slightly toward mine. The way his knee is almost, not quite, touching my thigh.

I select something at random. A thriller, apparently. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be able to focus on anything except Dylan’s presence beside me.

The film begins. Dylan takes a sip of whiskey and makes a small sound of approval.

“This is good,” he says. “I don’t usually drink whiskey, but this is nice.”

“It’s Irish, actually. I thought you might prefer it.”

He turns to look at me, surprise flickering across his features. “You bought Irish whiskey? For me?”

“I thought...” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed. “It was nothing. Just whiskey.”

“It’s not nothing.” His voice is soft. “It’s thoughtful. You’re always so thoughtful.”

The warmth in his words spreads through my chest. I take a long sip of my own drink, trying to calm my racing heart.

On screen, something explodes. Neither of us reacts. We’re not really watching.

The whiskey disappears slowly. The film plays on. And gradually, incrementally, the space between us shrinks.

Dylan’s knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves away.

We stay like that as the film continues, barely touching, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he must be able to hear it. The whiskey warms my blood. The solid presence of him beside me warms something deeper.

I don’t know what happens next. Don’t know if this is the beginning of something or just a moment of comfort that will fade by morning. Don’t know if Dylan feels even a fraction of what I feel, or if I’m reading too much into a gesture that means nothing.

But right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

Right now, I’m just a man sitting on a sofa with someone I care about, watching a film I’m not following, feeling more at peace than I’ve ever felt in my life.