Page 96 of Emerson

Warren drags him away, and then…

Then it’s just us.

My stomach rumbles again, and Dillon rubs his thumb on my back.

“Let’s go inside. I’ll find you something warm to eat, and then we can talk about where we’ll start looking in the morning. You need food and sleep.” I can do nothing but look up at him, my heart in my throat.

I can’t believe he’s here. It’s a chant, my heart drumming a frantic beat as he leads me inside, using the key on his keychain to get us in.

Dillon doesn’t comment on the mess when he pushes my apartment door open, just pauses long enough to use his booted foot to slide the mess of coats and shoes I tore out of the closest, to make a path for us to walk into the apartment. He moves me over to the counter, pulls out one of the stools underneath, and sits me down.

I hate it the second his hand leaves me. I want it back, and that just makes me want to cry all over again.

I can’t believe he’s fucking here.

Over two months. It’s been over two months since I’ve seen his face or heard his laugh. And now he’s taking off his boots and moving around my apartment like he’s been doing it for years.

Once upon a time, he did. He came every time I called for help, no matter how big or small the ask. He has always shown up for me. He didn’t need to. I was just his friend’s brother, but he never made me feel like I was just Warren’s brother.

He made me feel cared for.

Because that’s what Dillon does. He cares for everyone around him. His sister. His friends. His daughter.

He starts with finding me a box of tissues, and then I watch as he opens and closes my fridge. Finds a pan. He glances at me every once in a while, but he doesn’t seem to know what the fuck to say any more than I do.

What do I even say?

The man drove five hours to come here, and now he’s making me a grilled cheese. At three in the fucking morning.

“Stop,” I gasp, covering my face.

“Hey,” he says. I hear the click of the stove burner knob being turned off, and then he’s walking around and spins the barstool seat until he can wrap me up in his arms again. “Talk to me, baby.”

“You shouldn’t have come, Dillon.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because you probably have work in a few hours. Because we agreed on four months. Because…because this is hard enough, Dillon.”

Because I think I love you.

Dillon

The skin under his eyes is darkened from lack of sleep and splotchy from tears. I look back and forth between his brown eyes, swiping the lingering wetness away.

He has no fucking clue.

It seems so absurd to me, with how loud my feelings for him are, that he can’t hear it. He can’t see it or feel it. Or he doesn’t want to see it.

“Emerson, I’m here because you called me. I want to be here.”

He pulls back, already making a dismissive noise, and something ugly twists up in my chest. I have to step back, to go back over to the stove before I say more shit than he’s ready to hear. Hell, there’s a chance he won’t ever be willing to hear it. But that’s a risk I’m willing to take. I take a moment to steady myself before turning the burner back on and continuing making him food.

“She found me,” he starts quietly, easing the idea of continued silence away. “The morning after my twenty-first birthday.” His laugh is wounded and raw around the edges. “I went out to get pain meds for my massive hangover after leaving your house. She came crawling out of the dumpster like a fucking zombie demon. I couldn’t even identify her as a cat at first. She followed me all the way home.”

I walk the grilled cheese over and slide the plate in front of him.

“She’s my best friend, I think,” he mutters, picking at the crusty top of the sandwich.