The bar was half-empty, half-dark, the kind of place where secrets felt safer than small talk.
Dorian held the door for Lisa. She slipped past him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest. He caught a whiff of something—coconut, maybe, or vanilla. Not perfume. Shampoo.
They found stools at the far end of the counter. A game played on the TV above the liquor bottles—muted, irrelevant. A couple argued in low voices near the window. The bartender, a woman with tired eyes and a silver ring through her nose, ambled over, her gaze flicking to Dorian for a second longer than necessary before settling on Lisa.
"What'll it be?"
"Whiskey," Lisa said. "Something smooth. Surprise me."
Dorian nodded. "Same."
The bartender almost smirked. "You trust me?"
"You look like you've made worse decisions than our drink order."
She almost smiled. "You'd be surprised."
---
The first drink arrived—amber, smoky, with a single cube of ice. Lisa took a sip, closed her eyes, and hummed.
"Okay," she said. "She knows what she's doing."
"Or you're easy to please."
She nudged his shoulder. "Rude." But she was smiling.
The second round came faster. The bartender set Dorian's glass down with a napkin already beneath it. He noticed the number—small, neat, written in black ink at the edge. He didn't react. Just turned the napkin slightly so the number faced down.
Lisa tilted her head. "Something wrong?"
"Nothing."
She watched him for a beat, then let it go.
The bar noise softened into a hum. Lisa turned on her stool, facing him, her knee pressing against his.
"You're quiet," she said.
"So are you."
"I'm trying to figure you out." She tilted her head. "You were different tonight. At the open mic."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Too composed." Her fingers traced a line on the bartop. "Like you were watching everything from a distance. Even when you were standing right there."
He didn't answer. Let the silence breathe.
She laughed—a short, self-conscious sound. "Sorry. I'm not usually this…" She waved a hand. "Whatever this is."
"Honest?"
"That's one word for it."
She took another drink. Her eyes didn't leave his face.
---
His phone buzzed. You left without saying goodbye. That's rude.
He glanced at the screen, then set it face-down.
Lisa raised an eyebrow. "Someone important?"
"Jenna. From the event."
Lisa tilted her head. "The blonde girl you were talking to?"
Dorian glanced at her, then nodded. "Yeah."
"She seems… nice."
"She's efficient."
"That's not what I meant."
He didn't answer. The phone buzzed again.
I'm never too busy, by the way.
Dorian typed back: Noted. Then he put the phone away.
Lisa watched him, curious but not pressing.
"You're not going to explain?"
"Nothing to explain."
She snorted. "Men."
"Present company included?"
"Especially you."
---
A third round appeared without them asking. The bartender shrugged, glancing at Dorian once more before walking away. Lisa laughed—genuine, warm.
"She's my new best friend."
Dorian took a sip. The whiskey was smoother this time. Or maybe he was just relaxing.
"So," Lisa said, leaning closer, her forearm brushing his. "That blonde girl. She likes you."
"She tolerates me."
"No." Lisa shook her head. "I saw the way she looked at you tonight. That's not tolerance." She paused. "You're really bad at noticing when people are interested."
"Or I notice and don't act on it."
She blinked. "That's worse."
"Is it?"
She stared at him for a long moment—studying him, her head slightly tilted. Something flickered across her face. Not quite confusion. Not quite concern.
"You're not joking," she said.
"No."
She laughed again, softer, but her eyes didn't leave his. "You're impossible."
"I've been told."
---
They left the bar around midnight. The air was cold, sharp. Lisa shivered. Dorian didn't offer his jacket. She didn't ask.
They walked in silence for half a block.
"My place is closer," she said.
He looked at her. She wasn't looking at him.
I could say no, he thought. I could walk away. Nothing's pushing me toward this except the fact that I want to see what happens.
The realization sat quietly in his chest. Not guilt. Not excitement. Just acknowledgment.
"We can have one more drink," she added. "Or not. I just don't want the night to end yet."
A flicker—warm, heavy, unnamed—pressed at the edge of his awareness. Not a word. Not a label. Just presence. Like heat from a fire you're not sure is real.
"Okay," he said.
---
Her apartment was small, warm, cluttered with canvases and paint tubes. A half-finished portrait leaned against the wall—a woman's face, the eyes still blank, waiting.
A tiny ball of fur erupted from the couch.
Momo.
The dog barked twice, circled Dorian's feet, then jumped onto the back of the couch, watching him with suspicious eyes.
Lisa chuckled softly. "She's been waiting for you."
"Lucky me."
Momo sniffed his hand, then lost interest and curled into a ball on the armrest.
Lisa poured two glasses of water. No more alcohol. The sobriety made the room feel smaller, more intimate.
They sat on the couch. Not close. Not far.
"I'm glad we could hang out tonight," she said.
"Yeah."
"You didn't have to stay after."
"I wanted to."
She looked at him. "Did you?"
He didn't answer.
---
The silence stretched. She shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under herself. Her knee pressed against his thigh. She didn't move it.
"You're really hard to read," she said.
"Thanks."
"It's not a compliment."
"I know."
She was close now. Close enough that he could see the faint freckles across her nose. The slight tremor in her fingers resting on the cushion between them.
"Lisa," he said.
"Yeah."
He could feel her heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own. The flicker again—warmer now, more distinct. Still not a word. Still not quite a feeling he could name.
She moved first.
Not a lunge. Not a rush. Just a shift—leaning into his space, her shoulder pressing against his, her hand landing on his chest.
"I've been wanting to do this all night," she whispered.
"Do what?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes searched his face.
He reached up. Touched her cheek. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth.
She closed her eyes.
Momo lifted her head, growled softly, then flopped back down.
Lisa laughed. "Ignore her. She's just jealous."
"Of me?"
"Of anyone getting attention."
She kissed him.
---
Momo jumped onto the couch. Wedged herself between them. Barked once.
Lisa groaned. "Momo. Seriously."
The dog stared at Dorian. He stared back.
"She's doing this on purpose," Lisa said, pushing Momo off the couch. "I swear."
Momo landed on the floor, circled twice, and jumped back up—this time onto Lisa's lap.
"Okay, that's it." Lisa scooped up the dog, carried her to the bedroom door, and set her down. "Stay."
Momo did not stay. She stood in the doorway, tail wagging, watching.
Lisa turned back to Dorian. Her cheeks were flushed. "Sorry. She's not used to…"
"To what?"
"To me bringing someone home."
The words hung between them. She stepped closer. Her hand found his again.
Momo whined. Lisa ignored her.
"Do you want to—" She nodded toward the bedroom.
He looked at her. Her eyes were clear. Not drunk. Not uncertain.
I could still leave, he thought. But I don't want to.
"Yeah," he said.
She took his hand. Led him toward the bedroom.
Momo trotted behind them, then veered off toward her bed in the corner.
Lisa closed the bedroom door.
The room was dark. Her hand was warm.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 39]