CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 50

DORIAN

I shouldn’t have called him.

I knew that.

But the second choir practice ended and I saw him walking away with his shoulders slumped like the world was chewing him up, I pulled out my phone anyway.

My thumb hovered over his name. I told myself not to press it.

I pressed it.

He picked up after the third ring. His voice was soft, tired. “Father?”

“Dorian,” I corrected automatically. “Come over.”

“What?” he whispered. “I—Genevieve—”

“Tell her you’re staying at Lily’s,” I said. “I’ll text Lily too.”

There was a pause. “Why?”

“Because you need a break. And I want to see you.”

Silence. Then a shaky, “Okay.”

Thirty minutes later, there was a knock on my door.

He stood there in his hoodie, damp hair sticking to his forehead, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked like a student who’d been through war.

I stepped aside. “Come in.”

“Are you sure—”

“Ezra.” My voice left no room for argument.

He stepped inside, kicking off his shoes like he’d done this a hundred times. He hadn’t. But God, it felt like he belonged here.

“Sit,” I said, pointing at the counter stool.

He obeyed, wide-eyed. “You… cooked?”

I turned off the stove and plated the pasta. “I can do more than sermons, Ezra.”

He bit back a smile. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” I shot back.

His cheeks flushed. “Maybe.”

I slid the plate in front of him. “Eat.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll eat later. Right now, you eat.”

He twirled the pasta awkwardly, like his hands had forgotten how forks worked. After the first bite, his eyes widened. “This is actually good.”

I raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

He ducked his head to hide his smile and kept eating.

When he finished, I led him to the bathroom. The tub was already half-filled with warm water. Steam curled into the air.

His eyes went round. “You didn’t—”

“Bath. Now.”

“Father—”

“Dorian,” I cut in.

“Dorian.” His voice was softer now. “You don’t have to do this.”

I crouched in front of him, resting my hands on the edge of the tub. “I know I don’t. I want to.”

His throat bobbed. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Then cry,” I said simply. “Or laugh. Or sleep. Just… stop carrying everything alone for one night.”

Something cracked in his face. He nodded slowly and slipped into the bathroom. I closed the door to give him space.

While he bathed, I set up the living room. Dim lights. A stupid comedy movie queued up. Two mugs of hot chocolate waiting on the table.

By the time he came out, wrapped in one of my oversized shirts like it was a blanket, he looked softer. Lighter. The dark cloud that had been hovering all week wasn’t gone, but it had thinned.

I patted the couch. “Sit.”

He flopped down beside me, hair damp, cheeks pink from the heat of the bath.

“What movie?” he asked suspiciously.

“The dumbest one I could find,” I admitted.

He laughed. Actually laughed. “I’m scared.”

“You should be,” I deadpanned.

When the opening credits rolled, he leaned back, shoulders relaxing. Halfway through, he started laughing so hard at a bad joke that he snorted.

I stared at him. “Did you just snort?”

He gasped. “No!”

“You did,” I said, grinning.

He shoved my arm lightly. “Stop!”

“I’ll never forget this,” I teased. “Ezra Monroe: choir boy, math nerd, snorter.”

He covered his face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He peeked through his fingers. “Maybe a little.”

I laughed. And for a while, the world outside didn’t exist. No Nico. No senator. No guilt. Just Ezra’s laughter filling my living room like sunlight through stained glass.

By the time the movie ended, his head had fallen against my shoulder. His breathing slowed. His lashes fluttered once, twice… then stayed still.

He was asleep.

I didn’t move. Not for a long time.

I just sat there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of him against me.

Warm. Trusting. Completely unaware of the chaos he’d set loose inside me.

I should’ve woken him. Told him to sleep in the spare room. Kept boundaries.

Instead, I whispered, “Sleep, Ezra,” and pulled the blanket over him.