The Dinner Job

Eliot did not believe in coincidence. A bad guy shows up in the same place they want the ransom? Not a coincidence. Villain sends you somewhere that’s easily ambushed? Not a coincidence. His girlfriend’s dog downtown on a Saturday? He had to admit, his girlfriend was the only person who could probably bend coincidence to her will.

He was walking to the Saturday market when he heard Devil pipe up with his “hey! I know you!” bark. By Ophelia’s count, Devil had eight distinctive barks. Devil thought it was more like 12, but then math could be fuzzy for him. Eliot looked around, finally spotting them both across the street. She had knelt to speak to him, to get him to stop barking before he scared someone, because she didn’t see anyone they knew. She didn’t see Eliot until he crossed the street to stand in front of her, and even then all she saw were boots, a baseball cap, and sunglasses.

“Jones!” She jumped up to throw one arm around him. Devil mrf’d something suspiciously like “told you so.”

“Hey Princess! I didn’t know you were in town today.” He spoke to Devil as well, because the dog had recognized him from across the street. “How are you, buddy?”

“Devil’s vet works Saturdays,” she explained. “So we get the last appointment, then go to the Dog Park, then go get lunch.”

Devil wagged his tail happily in affirmation. These were some of his favorite days, not just because he spent the entire day with Ophelia, but because she always felt bad when he had to have shots, and a smart dog could parlay that into half a ham sandwich.

“That sounds like a good day. Where in all that are you now?”

“On our way to lunch. Would you like to go? We’d love to have you,” she offered, hoping he would. Devil hoped he would two, because that was twice as many chances at a sandwich.

“I was going to the Market, and there’s some excellent food there. Maybe you two would join me?” They spent more time apart than they did together; he was certain she’d agree. Devil, of course, would have followed him to the moon. Neither of them could explain why.

She exchanged a glance with Devil, who thought this was the greatest idea he’d ever heard.

“We’d love to!”

“I hoped you would,” he said. He meant it.

“What’s all this,” he gestured to her backpack, which was unusual. To be certain, it coordinated with the rest of her outfit (he found it reassuring that she did this all the time, not just when she was going to see him. Sophie said she communicated through her clothes, but he thought in this case her communication was more generally “aren’t Saturdays fun” than “I spent three days coordinating this in order to look effortless”.) Devil was also wearing a dog pack with water on one side and a plastic dish with a lid on the other.

“Some clothes and some other shoes, if I need them. Sometimes the Dog Park is muddy. Plus some water, plus a book. And after we talked with a behaviorist a couple of years ago, Devil carries his own water and bowl because he likes to help.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was surprised, but we’d go out for a day hike or something and he’d come back all doggy depressed. The behaviorist said he felt like he wasn’t getting to pull his weight. I started letting him carry the water bottles, and it all straightened out.”

“No, I mean: A dog behaviorist is a thing?”

“My guidance counselor never mentioned that,” she lamented. “I felt cheated when I heard about it. But she wasn’t nearly the quack I thought she would be.”

“Did you ever work with dogs when you…before?” Her questions about his past, when she asked them, were vague like this. She never asked where or when, or why. But if she felt like the question was neutral enough, she would ask. He always gave her deeply sanitized answers.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But I was never assigned a dog. And I never worked in a group that had dogs assigned to it. But the ones I got to work with were awesome. I always enjoyed it.” He waited to see if she had any more questions before asking one of his own. Since she had already introduced the topic, Eliot felt it would be rude not to ask the socially acceptable follow-up. “What are you reading today?”

The book, which he’d never heard of, would be far more interesting if he could hear it from her first-hand, but he enjoyed her gushing review all the same. She mentioned it was a favorite; he was quickly figuring out that she only bothered to keep books she loved, so everything on her shelves fell into the category of “favorite”.

Had Devil been able to describe his perfect day, this was it. It wasn’t far from Ophelia’s perfect day, or Eliot’s for that matter. Devil had nearly as many samples as he could eat, plus he got petted by dozens of new people. Eliot got to spend a rare Saturday as relaxed as he’d been lately, shopping for food with his enthusiastic girlfriend. It was warm, for fall, and pleasant, with a friendly crowd of people and a lot of really delicious food. Plus a girlfriend who was literally eating out of his hand. He wasn’t sure he could legally ask for more. Until an idea occurred to him.

For a dozen perfectly sensible reasons, Eliot had never invited Ophelia to his place. To any of his places. If she didn’t know, he reasoned, she couldn’t be forced to tell. She couldn’t inadvertently lead someone there. On the other hand, he’d seen her kitchen. It wasn’t terrible, but she had said more than once she’d be better served with a larger garage than the kitchen she had. She could cook; she just elected not to do so. Eliot had wanted to cook something for her for a while now, but also didn’t want to endanger her just for the sake of showing off a little. Okay, a lot. But now she was here anyway, he was certain she wasn’t being followed…

She flipped slowly through a rack of dresses made by a local seamstress, clearly trying to decide between a red one and a blue one.

“Blue’s more your color,” he offered quietly. She briefly leaned back against him before turning to look at him, both dresses held against her.

“You think?”

“I’m sure. You should get it.”

He took possession of the dog while she bought a new dress and also a scarf plus a pair of earrings. She liked to support local artists, he knew. He also knew she loved clothes, but that was okay too. Sophie loved shoes; it didn’t impact her ability to do her job. Ophelia’s love of clothes didn’t negatively impact her ability to work either, although Eliot suspected she would be able to retire roughly 10 years earlier than she planned to now if she pared her purchases down just some. She zipped her new acquisitions into her backpack before coming to find him in front of a fresh vegetable stand.

“I was talking to Devil,” he began casually. This might not work at all. “And he didn’t know if you have dinner plans for tonight. But he thought you didn’t.”

“We don’t,” she said. “But you have to be careful asking him about meals. He’s the dog version of a Hobbit.” He’d ask Hardison later. “Did you have something in mind?”

While their relationship thus far had been warm and affectionate, it wasn’t what Ophelia would have called intimate. Eliot, having decided that she was different and must be treated differently, was in an extended ‘getting to know her’ phase that often left him feeling confused and off balance. He’d gotten to know some women over a drink and a half. Now he’d been out with Ophelia more than a dozen times over six weeks without even hinting he wanted to sleep with her. He was beginning to doubt his sanity. But he also didn’t want to invite himself to her place for that purpose, especially if he might get called to do a job the next day and be forced to leave. But today, everything seemed to be falling into place. Here she was, unexpectedly, and he knew for certain the Leverage crew was a week or more from their next job. The universe seemed to be giving him what he wanted, which made him deeply suspicious; the universe was generally a bastard. But possibly, in this case, it was slightly less of a bastard.

“I did,” he said. “I thought maybe I could make you dinner. At my place. If you’d like that.”

There it was. She wasn’t one to look a gift from the universe in the mouth.

“That sounds wonderful, and I don’t mind accepting on Devil’s behalf. Did you have a meal planned? Do I need a change of shoes?”

He smiled; she tried to act like she hadn’t just gone weak in the knees.

“Seafood pasta, I think. Does that sound good?”

“Without mussels.” It wasn’t exactly a question, nor was it exactly a statement. It was guidance.

“Without mussels,” he answered. “Come on. There’s an Italian guy over here who makes his own. Spaghetti or linguini? Or something else?”

“Depends on the sauce,” she opined, “but generally linguini.”

“Perfect.”

Devil, who also liked linguini, agreed.

They walked home in the early evening.

“I didn’t realize you lived downtown,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” he said. “No yard to keep up. My building is pretty quiet. The landlord is good.”

The landlord was Hardison, and part of what Eliot did was see that nobody got to his servers on the other part of his floor. The first floor was a camping store which, while well-known around Portland, had never been advertised as having living spaces. Eliot wanted a quiet building; Hardison provided one. It wasn’t his only place, but it was the one he used most frequently.

“Plus parking is cheap and it’s close to my office.”

He led them to an historic building on a side street near a park. She looked up at it, then back at him.

“You live here?”

“Surprised?”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen a person and their home so perfectly in sync with each other,” she explained. “All this time and I didn’t even know there were condos up there!”

“Nobody does, but I like it that way.”

He started up a stairway in the back when he realized Devil might not care for it. It was old metal, rusty and loud with open gaps between each step. Sure enough, he looked back to find Ophelia and Devil in what appeared to be deep negotiation.

Hurrying back down, he ruffled Devil’s ears in apology. “Sorry, my dude. I didn’t even think about that.”

He pulled open a door at the back of the store. “We can take the freight elevator,” he said. “They don’t get deliveries this late on a Saturday, so nobody will mind.”

“Thanks,” Ophelia said. “He wanted me to pick him up.”

“You have steps at your place,” he pointed out.

“But they’re carpeted and he can’t see between them,” she answered. “He’s trained to look for hazards, and that’s definitely one. If he were leading a blind person, they might get hurt on stairs like that.”

He knew Devil was more than just her pet; he hadn’t realized the dog had any formal training.

“Is he also an attack dog?”

Devil looked at him with such a friendly smile, he felt bad even asking. Surely, even with all the things he was, this dog wasn’t a killer. But he also knew the value in being underestimated.

“I think he can, but I’m not sure he would,” she said. “I had friends who trained dogs for an agency that gives them to veterans, and I put him through some obedience and agility training myself. But if you’re wondering is there some word I can say and he’ll grab a person by the neck, then no. I’m pretty sure he can’t do that.”

“Would he like to do that?” Eliot asked. He knew people. “Or would you like for him to be able to do that?”

“He would probably love it, but he already scares people as he is, especially if they don’t know him. And I like to think I lead a low-threat lifestyle. There aren’t too many people out there eager to kidnap a history professor, unless it’s exam time. And even then the average college student couldn’t get that kind of plan together.”

While he hoped he didn’t cause her to reassess her threat level, he could think of a number of people who would personally love to get a hold of Eliot Spencer’s girlfriend. He’d think about it later, and maybe ask Hardison how hard it would be to turn her dog into an attack dog. Just in case she needed it.

The elevator opened into a small foyer with two doors. One door, marked 2A, was Hardison’s server room. The other, 2B, was Eliot’s place.

“You live in the Shakespeare suite!” she exclaimed.

“What? Oh, yeah. 2B. I guess I do,” he smiled, unlocking the door with a card key and a regular key. “I hadn’t thought about it that way before.”

“How refreshing that must be,” she answered, reaching down to unhook Devil from his leash. “Okay if I let him go? He’s not muddy.”

“Go wild,” he addressed his remark to the dog. “Even if he is.”

He locked the door behind her before heading into the kitchen to unload the food they’d bought. Ophelia’s first thought was that he surely hadn’t decorated this place himself. It was, to choose a word, decorated. The furniture all matched, except for a chair that looked as if it might have been to war and just barely lived to tell the tale. There was a large tv, which she took as given. But the few framed pictures almost looked as if they had the display pictures still in them. There was nothing terribly personal; nothing he couldn’t leave in an instant, she realized.

“Make yourself at home,” he called from the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink? I didn’t know I was going to see you today, so I don’t have any tea right now. But I’ll put some on.”

She had adapted to life in the Pacific Northwest fairly well, but she held tenaciously to sweet tea. Almost nobody here served it; she was rarely without a thermos during the work week. Eliot thought he liked sweet tea, but that was before he had sampled hers one day. It would have made an excellent pancake syrup. He couldn’t believe she wasn’t diabetic. He couldn’t believe she wasn’t hyper as all hell. Just as a test one day, he’d given Parker some in a glass. After mentioning at her house that he rarely had it once he left Oklahoma, she had sent him home with a pitcher one night. Eliot had put some in a travel mug the next day, so it had steeped overnight. It was full strength. It had taken Hardison four hours to peel her off the ceiling, after which he had called demanding to know what Eliot had used to drug Parker.

“It was a glass of Ophelia’s sweet tea,” he said, once Hardison had stopped shouting. “She drinks that stuff all the time, just by the way. Like, constantly.”

“I’m not sure why her heart doesn’t explode out of her chest,” Hardison answered. “I have to go convince Parker that we can’t jump off Mount Rushmore tonight. Have you suggested she cut that shit with something? Like morphine?”

“I’m afraid coming off it would kill her,” Eliot admitted. “I don’t know what kind of rehab you send a person to when they’re addicted to sweet tea, but it’s gotta be hardcore. She makes her own and takes it to work.”

“Well, maybe you want to get her into something less addictive. Like crack.”

He didn’t use as much sugar as she did, but neither did Hershey’s.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She summoned Devil over to take his pack off and pour him some water, which she set by the door. “There you go, fuzzy. Do not eat Eliot’s couch, okay? And don’t jump on it unless he says you can.” He thumped his tail on the floor; she never really got mad at him, but he liked to know the rules.

Once she set the dog free, she slipped out of her own boots, just in case there was any dog park residue. Then she went to join Eliot in the kitchen. If she let him make the tea, he wouldn’t use enough sugar and then where would they be?

“Can I help with anything?” she offered. You could take the girl out of the South, Eliot smiled. You could never take the South out of the girl. If he didn’t ask her to refrain, she’d be whipping up a casserole before he knew it.

“Just pull up a seat and enjoy the show,” he replied. “You like cooking shows, right?”

“I do,” she agreed. “I had never hoped to be part of a live audience.”

“Peaches, you’re more like the guest judge,” he teased. Not that he was worried; if he could do anything, he could cook a good meal.

He was, he had to admit, an impressive cook. Anyone could boil water and add pasta to it; it took a culinary genius to make the act of boiling water look interesting. But Ophelia was a good audience, and she appreciated the effort he was taking. Though he was deeply distrustful of the universe’s motives, he decided to roll the dice. Cooking could be sexy, and so could he.

She had reached roughly the same conclusion, and decided dinner could be an event. And now she was equipped for it.

“Do you mind if I go run a brush through my hair?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “The bathroom is the third door. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

“You and Devil can get along while I’m gone?”

The dog, who was lying at her feet hoping Eliot dropped something, barked sharply.

“What he said,” Eliot agreed. “We’ll be fine.”

She grabbed her backpack and went off to a surprisingly spacious guest bathroom that looked like it had been transported from a home improvement store into a condo with no human intervention. It looked nice, but also like the vanity might be cardboard. It was obvious that guests had rarely if ever used it.

She quickly shimmied out of her jeans and sweater and into the dress she had bought earlier. Then she brushed out her hair and pinned part of it up. Finally, she pulled her emergency kit out and applied a little powder and touched up her mascara, plus dabbed on a little perfume she hadn’t realized was in the bag. Done. A little Saturday glamour was good for the soul.

Eliot was surprised at how quickly she reappeared in the kitchen, and how different she looked. She hadn’t transformed into another person; she had just enhanced her look a little. Almost too late, he realized she’d done it entirely for his benefit. Dinner would have been just as good in jeans as it was in her dress. This girlfriend gig, he decided, was severely underrated as far as he was concerned.

He grabbed her by the waist as she passed, spinning her into a quick kiss.

“That was fast, Peaches,” he whispered. “But I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Do you like it?” She stepped out of his arms and pirouetted for him, making the skirt flare out. “It has pockets!”

“It looks much better on you than it did on the hanger,” he said, realizing that wasn’t much of a compliment after the words were out. “You didn’t have to change for me, but I appreciate that you did.”

“And I appreciate that you’re giving up a Saturday to make dinner for me,” she said, draping her arms around his shoulders. “Which smells wonderful, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he answered, pulling her closer. “But trust me, I didn’t give up anything to be here. Here is exactly where I want to be.” He released her with a kiss on the cheek before returning to his pots and pans. Far from just assembling things into a meal (which Ophelia freely admitted was the extent of her skill in the kitchen), Eliot made his own sauces and salad dressings, and even freshened up a loaf of French bread. While he was putting the finishing touches on dinner, Ophelia fed Devil and set the table.

“Wine with dinner?” he asked. “I have a good white.”

“Sounds great,” she said. “I don’t know a whole lot about wine, so I can’t be all wine snob about it. Like, top notes and bouquets and whatever it is wine people talk about.”

“I know plenty for both of us,” he said. “Where did you find these candles?”

She gestured at the drawer behind him.

“Were you saving them for something? I thought they would look nice.”

He hadn’t been saving them because he didn’t know they were in the drawer, especially since that drawer held kitchen towels. The whole thing seemed like a Parker stunt, except Parker wasn’t… Parker shouldn’t, in any case. He would deal with it, her, and the rope dangling past the kitchen window at some other point. He shot a look at Devil, who was still face-down in his food bowl, eating as if he hadn’t been eating all day. But Eliot had kindly cooked up some shrimp for him, so Devil was making certain he got every last crustacean molecule out of his bowl.

The universe gave, the universe took, he guessed.

They lingered over dinner and wine, talking in a candid way about her week and classes, and his week (not really), and some adventures in his past (partly true). They would have sat there all night had Devil not shown up at the table and dropped his leash on Ophelia’s feet. He had been a patient dog, but even the most patient dog occasionally needed to go outside.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly aware of the time. “I guess I should take Devil out then we should go home. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”

He was reasonably sure he hadn’t imagined the regret creeping into her tone.

“I’ll take him,” Eliot offered. “That way you don’t have to put on boots and all that. Plus I know this neighborhood better. Just hang out. We’ll be back. Then maybe we can talk about dessert.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Positive,” he said. “Don’t set the place on fire.”

He and Devil left, while she wondered what she should do in the meantime. She glanced around the kitchen; his pots and pans and knives were probably off limits, but she could handle the dishes.

Eliot and Devil walked for a while, Eliot letting Devil check out the things he wanted to, waiting while he did his business. They walked all the way to the river, where Eliot sat on a bench and patted next to him for the dog to hop up.

“All right, buddy,” Eliot started. “I think we need to make a deal.”

The dog settled into a more business-like position, ready to listen.

“The thing is, I’d really like her to stay tonight.” Devil cocked his head at Eliot and gave a piercing whine. “And you too! I don’t mean I’d send you home or leave you on the street or anything. I mean I’d like her to stay, with me, tonight. If she wants to. My deal with you is: if she agrees to stay, I need you to not come crashing into the bedroom, okay? I promise I’m not going to hurt her, but I really need for you to stay out. You can have the run of the rest of the place, and I’ll leave the tv on that home improvement channel you like. And in the morning, I will make you your own stack of pancakes. Deal?”

Devil barked twice.

“With bacon,” Eliot agreed. If someone had told him six weeks ago he would be having this conversation, he would have punched them in the face then taken them for the psychological treatment they desperately needed. “Sound fair?”

Devil held up one paw to be shaken, as was customary in these agreements.

“I appreciate it, man,” Eliot said. “I mean it.”

Devil licked him on the face to show he appreciated being considered in this matter. Ophelia was, after all, his person. His one job was to take care of her, but he was willing that Eliot could participate as long as Ophelia agreed to it.

They returned to the condo in good spirits to find Ophelia washing dishes by hand and singing along to Sam Cooke on her phone. She didn’t hear them return, lost as she was in the music while rinsing the last of the dishes. Eliot refilled Devil’s water bowl and unhooked him, then stood for a moment to watch her. It was rare that he got to watch someone he wasn’t going to have to fight later, and even rarer to catch them in a happy, unguarded moment.

He joined her in the kitchen, gently twisting her hair off her neck, putting his arms around her.

“Babe, I have a dishwasher. You don’t have to wash the dishes here.”

“I was just rinsing them off,” she replied. He noticed she didn’t move to get away from him or wriggle out of his grasp. In fact, she seemed to relax against him, just a little, still swaying very slightly to the music. Very carefully, he kissed where her neck met her shoulder; hearing no objection, he nibbled his way to her ear, satisfied with her contented sigh.

“Stay,” he urged softly. “Stay here with me tonight, Ophelia.”

She moved just enough to look at him over her shoulder.

“Are you sure?” Which wasn’t quite the reaction he expected. “I mean, I just thought maybe you didn’t…or maybe you weren’t…,” she seemed to be at a loss for words. Or at least unwilling to speak them out loud.

“You thought I waited this long because I wasn’t interested,” he interpreted. He felt like he was getting good at that. “Listen to me for a minute.”

She turned off the faucet without letting go of the fork she’d been washing.

“Ophelia, I promise the only reason I waited this long was so you would trust me. I didn’t want you to think I was just here for a good time. I swear.”

She considered while he continued to nibble on her neck. He could tell her everything: that he already considered that she was his and that he’d marry her in a hot second if she’d say yes and not freak out about how little time they’d known each other. Or he could convince her that it was her desire he was acting on, not his that he’d been tamping down to the best of his ability. She wouldn’t be the first girl he’d convinced of that scenario.

And he could be exactly the guy he’d always been. He could be exactly the guy he had been trying to convince himself he would not be with her. Sure, she’d enjoy the experience, but he would always know what he’d done. Again. She would be different; he wouldn’t.

The next time he spoke, his usually gruff voice had a more tender quality to it.

“Please, Ophelia.”

“Yes.”

He shifted just enough to kiss her on the mouth.

“Because you want to, right? Not because you think I expect you to stay?” he asked. “I want you to, but I want you to be sure.”

She just bit down on the idea that she had been for a while and wasn’t sure what was taking so long.

“I’m very sure,” she answered instead.

“Then put down that fork before you break it in half,” he suggested. It clattered into the sink so loudly he almost laughed. “Ready for some dessert?”

He did laugh at her expression then.

“I was thinking ice cream, but maybe you have something else in mind?”

“Ice cream is fine,” she stammered as she tried to collect her wits.

He relented, letting her go to check his supplies. Because, come on, any girl who reacted like that to the suggestion of dessert was going to love fresh chocolate chip cookies. As a reward for not barging in and blowing his plans, Eliot gave Devil a bowl of ice cream too. Then put the tv on Devil’s favorite channel; if Ophelia thought it was odd (she barely noticed), she didn’t comment.

They’d been making out against the counter for a while when he finally remembered they could go somewhere with a closeable door, because she was old enough and this was his place.

“Come back here,” he urged, taking both of her hands. She followed him willingly, without even a backwards glance.

He kissed her, picking her up over the threshold and sliding the door shut behind them when she finally remembered she hadn’t arrived alone.

“Devil!” she said suddenly.

“He’s fine, watching tv. He’s got water, he’s been walked, and he said he’d stay if I made breakfast in the morning.”

“You’re going to make breakfast?” She sounded intrigued.

“Pancakes,” he offered. “You like pancakes, right?”

She twined her arms around his neck and chose to give him a non-verbal answer. He was fine with it.

She wasn’t entirely certain how she got on the bed, but she didn’t question it either. She was too busy trying to unbutton his shirt without ripping it off to bother with details about how who was where.

It wasn’t until she reached for his belt that he interrupted her.

“Uh uh,” he teased. “Not yet.”

“You’re kidding,” she murmured.

“I’m not, Princess. My bed, my rules. Got it?”

She had the audacity to look amused, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Do you have a lot of rules?”

“Two,” he said. “The first one is: you first. The second one is: don’t wake the neighbors.”

“You don’t have neighbors,” she pointed out.

“I knew you’d get it.”

If there was something Eliot knew besides cooking, it was women. Lots of women. All kinds of women. And while this one might have sized him up within five minutes of meeting him, he was pretty sure he knew her combination too. He had known, almost from the beginning, exactly what she’d be like: how she’d feel with those tits pressed against him, how his name would sound in her mouth, how she would respond to all the things he wanted to do to her.

He was wrong.

What was more, he knew he was wrong within seconds of getting her in his bed. By the time she’d run her hands up his bare chest, to his neck, pulling him into a kiss, he knew he had stunningly misestimated her. Of course he was familiar with the cliched idea of drowning in a kiss; he’d never actually experienced it before right now. He felt old and jaded and as if things in stupid teenage songs didn’t happen to him because they were stupid and only happened to teenagers, and he hadn’t been a teenager for what felt like centuries. When she tilted her lips to meet his and pressed herself against the length of his body, he felt himself start to fall; the sensation was so vivid he reached out one hand to catch himself only to find he hadn’t moved.

Admittedly, he had advanced more slowly with her than he had with any woman he’d ever met, but he still knew that her kiss, if bottled, would have a street value. Now he knew she’d been sandbagging all along, because this kiss was completely different. Kissing her tonight was like trying to hold lightning by the least shocking end. He had never known her to be anything but sweet and giving with her kisses. Tonight, she was demanding, and the thing the made his brain buzz was the idea that her demand was simple: if he told her what he wanted, she would let him have it. Just saying he wanted her wouldn’t meet her demand, though. Admitting his desire for her wasn’t enough, because she already knew. He was going to have to show her, precisely, what he meant when he said he wanted her.

He didn’t sleep much anyway. When she made the softest noise, his already hyper-aware mind sprang awake. It took a moment to overcome the reflex to jump out of bed to make sure nothing was wrong, that nobody was here who shouldn’t be; then he remembered that her dog was in the living room, and was unlikely to just let someone in like a welcome guest, which helped slow his breathing. His first move was to reach for her to make sure she was still there, that she hadn’t slipped out or disappeared. His second was take a moment to realize he would absolutely burn down the world for her, especially if she said please in his ear like that again.

A glance at the windows showed it was still dark. There was still plenty of night left. She shifted against him in her sleep, making him bite back a groan of desperate want. His life was about to be exponentially more difficult if just the thought that he could bring that sort of pleasure to her pretty face could make his head swim like this. The remembered sound of her voice in his ear made him dizzy. There was still enough night for both of them to experience that again. Just out of curiosity, he let his hand drift across her back, swearing that he could feel where her wings joined her body when she breathed.

Maybe a few more times.

He kissed her on the shoulder, noting that he had left a bite mark on her collarbone. While he hadn’t necessarily meant to, he wasn’t of a mind to apologize either. For a few days, anyway, he would be confident that she was out there carrying his mark. Hearing the echo of that in his head, he decided not to put it that way to her. But he still hoped she mentioned it.

She stretched and arched against him.

“Do we have to be awake now?” she murmured.

“Just because we’re awake doesn’t mean we have to be out of bed,” he teased. “Unless that’s what you want?”

Later, much later, he would decide his one true regret was that he had not done this on a night when she was wearing more complicated clothing. Sure, her dress was cute, but four buttons and it was over, and to his surprise, he found that the idea of unwrapping her like a gift was nearly overpowering. His mind flashed back to her outfit from the night of the mixer; the ribbon design had been intricate but not unsolvable. And obviously, since they were her clothes, she enjoyed wearing them. If it wouldn’t have woken her out of her fragile sleep, he would have slapped himself. Her coded message that night had obviously been “untie me”. (It had not, in fact, but that was a secret she’d take to her grave because she was embarrassed about not having realized it until he spoke the words out loud.)

Maybe he had been a bad guy. Nobody was blameless; probably even Ophelia had skeletons in her closet, or at least…episodes she’d rather not talk about. Eliot had literally never had this happen before. He had never laid awake because he doubted his own actions. Well, some of the things he’d done had caused him to lose sleep, but never women.

His restlessness finally communicated itself to Ophelia, who reached out a hand in her sleep.

He grabbed it and kissed the inside of her wrist.

That clearly was not what she had in mind just then, nor did she need any encouragement from him. He would think about everything else later.