Chapter 10 - THE FIRST DATE ENDED BECAUSE DORIAN TRIED TO PROTECT HER WITHOUT ASKINGAudrey chose a diner.
Not a French Quarter restaurant Dorian owned.
Not a private club.
Not somewhere with a waiter who knew his drink before he sat down.
A twenty-four-hour diner near Tulane.
Dorian stared at the laminated menu.
“This coffee is terrible.”
Audrey smiled.
“You survived federal prison.”
“Barely.”
“You'll make it.”
She looked different.
Not physically transformed.
That would have annoyed her.
She was still the same woman who had jumped into black water in scrubs.
Curvy.
Dark curls clipped loosely behind her head.
Brown eyes that seemed to notice excuses before they formed.
But she carried herself differently.
RN badge removed after shift.
A professional who no longer needed to explain why scrubs did not make her “almost a nurse.”
Dorian liked that.
Probably too much.
“How is Eli?” she asked.
“Good.”
“Actual good?”
He smiled.
“Actual.”
“Nightmares?”
“Less.”
“School?”
“Complains.”
“Healthy sign.”
“He has started correcting my grammar.”
“Excellent.”
Dorian studied her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is rarely true.”
He looked down.
“I missed you.”
Audrey became still.
No dramatic music.
Only silverware against plates.
“Okay.”
He almost laughed.
“That's brutal.”
“You said something.”
“I acknowledged it.”
“Fair.”
She stirred sugar into bad coffee.
“I thought about you too.”
Dorian’s chest moved.
“Do not turn that into a proposal.”
“I wasn't.”
“Your face was.”
He laughed.
They talked for ninety minutes.
Not Landon first.
Not Sabine.
Normal things.
Audrey hated overnight charting.
Dorian had learned to cook three meals.
“Name them.”
“Eggs.”
“Not a meal.”
“Pasta.”
“Maybe.”
“Chicken.”
“How?”
“Oven.”
“Suspiciously vague.”
He smiled.
Then harder things.
“Do you still hate Sabine?” Audrey asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you hurt her?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“Good.”
“Do you think she deserves forgiveness?”
“Not from me as an obligation.”
Correct.
“What about Landon?”
Dorian’s face changed.
“I don't know.”
“Fair.”
“Some days I want him dead.”
Audrey nodded.
“Feeling isn't action.”
“No.”
Therapy again.
They paid.
The check arrived.
Dorian reached automatically.
Audrey put down cash for half.
He stared.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“I invited you.”
“You asked to buy coffee.”
“I also ate.”
“So did I.”
He almost argued.
Stopped.
“Fine.”
Growth hurt.
Outside, rain began.
Of course.
Audrey looked up.
“This city is committed to symbolism.”
Dorian smiled.
“I'll drive you.”
“I have a car.”
He froze.
Good.
She had bought a used Toyota after graduating.
No missing keys.
No dependency.
“I can walk you to it?”
“Yes.”
Halfway across the parking lot, Dorian noticed a black sedan idling across the street.
His posture changed.
Audrey saw.
“What?”
“Car.”
“What about it?”
“Watching.”
She looked.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Dorian pulled out his phone.
Audrey’s eyes narrowed.
“Who are you calling?”
“Security.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“Audrey.”
“No.”
“That vehicle has been there since we came out.”
“So?”
“I have history.”
“So do I.”
He started:
“I’m sending someone to follow—”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Stop.”
Dorian went still.
“Do you know who it is?”
“No.”
“Has anyone threatened me?”
“No.”
“Then you do not get to put men behind me without telling me because anxiety feels like information.”
The words hit.
Exactly.
Dorian looked toward the sedan.
Then back.
“You're right.”
Audrey blinked.
Fast.
Progress.
Then he added:
“But I think we should photograph the plate and call police non-emergency if it follows you.”
That was reasonable.
She nodded.
“Fine.”
They did.
The sedan drove away.
Turned out to belong to a private car service waiting for a customer at a nearby apartment.
Dorian felt foolish.
Good.
Audrey unlocked her car.
“Date over?”
“Yes.”
His face fell.
Then she smiled.
“Because I work in eight hours.”
“Oh.”
“And?”
He waited.
“You handled that badly.”
“Yes.”
“Then corrected.”
“Yes.”
“Ask again next week.”
Hope arrived.
“Dinner?”
“Coffee.”
“Cruel.”
“Work in progress.”
They dated slowly.
Months.
Dorian did not send security without consent again.
Almost.
Once Audrey worked a violent ER shift and mentioned a threatening patient.
Dorian asked:
“Do you want someone walking you to your car?”
She said:
“Hospital security already does.”
He said:
“Okay.”
He hated it.
Accepted it.
Audrey had mistakes too.
She sometimes interpreted any offer of help as control.
One night her apartment flooded from a broken upstairs pipe.
Dorian offered his guest room.
“No.”
“Hotel?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I can solve it.”
He looked at her.
“I know.”
“Then why offer?”
“Because solving something yourself doesn't mean you need to enjoy sleeping beside a dehumidifier.”
She stared.
Fair.
She stayed one night in his guest room.
Not his bed.
No pressure.
Eli left a note on the pillow:
THE SHOWER TAKES FOREVER TO GET HOT. DON'T BLAME ME.
Audrey laughed.
Over time, Dorian and Eli rebuilt something too.
The boy asked hard questions.
“Why did Uncle Landon hate you?”
“He wanted what I had.”
“Why did Sabine kiss him?”
“She made a bad choice.”
“Did you make bad choices?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
Age-appropriate truth.
Not full criminal history at ten.
Enough.
“I hurt people.”
“I broke laws.”
“I went to prison because of it.”
Eli thought.
“Are you still a bad guy?”
Dorian looked toward Dr. Brennan.
She did not rescue him.
Good.
“I think people can do bad things without becoming only one thing forever.”
Eli frowned.
“That's not yes or no.”
“You're related to Audrey.”
“I wish.”
Dorian laughed.
Then, a year after his release, Audrey accepted a promotion to emergency-department charge nurse.
She celebrated at a small restaurant.
Dorian attended.
Eli too.
Afterward Dorian walked Audrey to her car.
No suspicious sedan.
No crisis.
No river.
He said:
“I want to kiss you.”
She smiled.
“That was surprisingly civilized.”
“Therapy.”
“Expensive?”
“Criminal.”
She laughed.
“Ask properly.”
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
The kiss was slow.
Careful.
No gratitude.
No rescue.
No employment.
Audrey placed one hand against his chest.
Dorian touched her waist only after she leaned closer.
Then they stepped apart.
He looked almost shocked.
“What?”
she asked.
“I've wanted to do that for a long time.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You stare.”
“I thought I was subtle.”
“You are six-foot-two and frightening.”
“Subtlety suffers.”
She laughed.
Then kissed him again.
Inside her car she sat for a minute before driving.
Not because she feared what happened.
Because she did not.
That was new.
A year earlier Dorian’s attention had felt like danger wrapped in gratitude.
May you like
Now it felt like something she had chosen.
And choice changed the shape of everything.
