Chapter 165 I Make Dragons Nervous
Ashlyn
Steam clings to my skin as I shut the washroom door behind me, hair damp, towel looped around my waist. I take an extra second to stand there and let the quiet settle. The day has finally ended. My feet still ache from those heels that should be illegal in any terrain with rocks. Now all of it is rinsed off and left on the stone floor. I dry my hair halfway and then give up because, honestly, effort is overrated, and I reach for the shirt I've stolen. It’s folded on the edge of the chair, thick fabric, that's soft from too many washes. I pull it over my head and let it fall where it wants to fall, which is halfway down my thighs, sleeves brushing my elbows, and collar hanging loose enough to show skin when I move. It's perfect. The towel gets dropped somewhere behind me without ceremony, and I pad barefoot back into the living room. Paul is sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his shirt already discarded, shoulders broad and bare in the low light. He looks up when I enter and freezes. His eyes lock on my legs first. I watch them do it slowly, like he’s trying to be respectful and failing immediately. His gaze flicks over my knees and thighs to the hem of the shirt, where it cuts off just high enough to make a point. The fabric stretches across my hips when I take another step forward, and he watches it as his gaze climbs. Over the shirt, the dip of the collar, the curve of my throat and finally, finally, my eyes. His dragon flashes a deep maroon as our eyes lock. Paul blinks, hard. He straightens abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair and shaking his head like he’s physically reeling it back in.
“I—” He clears his throat. “I don’t mean to stare.”
I arch a brow.
“It’s just,” he continues, cheeks flushing just slightly, which is wildly unfair on a man built like he wrestles mountains for fun, “you. In my shirt. It’s… sending my dragon a little stir crazy.”
I grin.
“Can your dragon shut his eyes?” I ask lightly.
He doesn’t answer, but he closes them... Just like that. Both eyes shut, posture rigid, hands braced hard against his thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him from launching himself into orbit. I laugh a little at him.
“Oh my gods,” I murmur, stepping closer. “You’re adorable.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, still not opening his eyes.
“I’m trying to be respectful,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.
That’s the problem. I move until I’m standing between his knees, close enough that the space tightens immediately. I can feel the heat of him now, and the faint pull of his dragon’s awareness brushing against me like a question it’s too polite to ask out loud. His fingers twitch, then curl slightly into the fabric of his pants, knuckles whitening. He can feel me, smell me, sense me. Whatever dragons do when the thing they want is right there and telling them very clearly not to be idiots. I lean down, very slowly, and I place a soft kiss on his forehead, right at the edge of his hairline, barely there. It's like a promise of contact rather than the thing itself, and then I whisper, mouth close enough that my breath makes him shiver.
“It was a joke.”
His shoulders tense.
“You can look.”
One eye opens... Just a slit. Then the other. He looks up at me like he’s not entirely sure I’m real. Like I might disappear if he blinks too hard. His gaze sweeps me again, slower this time, reverent instead of startled, and I laugh again. Because this big, burly, battle-hardened dragon shifter is sitting in front of me like I’ve undone him with a cotton shirt and a joke.
“You’re killing me,” I tell him fondly.
He swallows. “I want to do no such thing.”
I straighten slightly, hands resting on my hips, the shirt shifting with the movement, and watch the way his attention tracks it even now.
“You okay?” I ask, softer.
“Yes,” he says immediately. “Very.” Then, after a moment and a very dramatic swallow, “No.”
I huff a laugh and step dramatically over his leg to sit on the couch beside him. I tuck both feet underneath me and make sure I'm close enough that my knees touch his thigh. It does absolutely nothing to calm him down. He turns his head toward me, eyes dark, expression open in a way that feels… earned. Like he’s letting himself be seen instead of managed.
“You make things loud,” he says quietly.
“Good,” I reply. “I’ve never been great at quiet.”
His mouth curves into a small smile.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he adds, serious now. “I don’t want to assume. I don’t want—”
I place two fingers against his lips.
“Breathe,” I tell him. “I’m here. That’s not rushing.”
His chest rises and falls heavily when I pull my fingers back, and the dragon settles again, curling back into place as if it trusts me not to disappear. I lean my head against his shoulder, letting the day finally drain out of me. The music, the laughter, the fairytale ending that belonged to someone else, I let it all breathe out of me. Paul’s arm comes around me slowly, tentative at first, then solid when I don’t move away. His hand rests warm against my back, fingers splayed like he’s memorising the shape. We sit there like that for a while. No rush, no spectacle, just two people at the edge of something new, letting the quiet prove it won’t bite us in the ass. Maybe my fairy tale doesn’t start with a ceremony; maybe it starts right here. With a stolen shirt, a very polite dragon, and a man who looks at me like I’m something worth waiting for.