ONE FIFTY FOUR
Dinner was served. Lasagna, golden and bubbling, filled the room with a kind of warmth that didn’t quite match the silence hanging above the table. It was Isabella’s recipe: rich, aromatic, made with too much love to be eaten in tension. But tension sat with us anyway. It was draped across every pair of shoulders, curling in the corners of the dim room like an unwanted guest.
There were five of us at the table now. Gael had showered, his damp curls slicked back neatly, a soft beige shirt clinging to his frame, clearly one of his own. The collar was creased, his sleeves rolled up halfway like he’d tried to look relaxed, but the restless twitch in his fingers betrayed him. He hadn’t touched his food. Not even a polite stab at the corner of the lasagna slice. He just kept shifting in his seat, fiddling with the edge of his plate like the silence was suffocating him. Like our presence was disturbing him.
Dominic sat across from him, hunched slightly, his elbows on the table, shoulders still tense from the weight of his healing body. He was no longer in the shirtless state he had been when Gael redressed his wounds earlier, he now wore one of Gael’s crisp button-downs, navy blue with thin white stripes that made his already intimidating figure look even more precise, put together. The shirt was clean, stiff at the collar, maybe freshly ironed, but it couldn’t distract from the dried fatigue on his face. His eyes—deep-set, rimmed with dark shadows—were half-lidded, like sleep had been teasing him for hours but he’d refused to give in. His hair, damp from a recent shower, clung in soft, loose strands to his forehead and temples, framing his angular face like the final brushstroke of an oil painting.
God.
He looked hot.
Not in the loud, arrogant kind of way. No, Dominic was the kind of hot that stole the breath from your lungs in still moments like this, the kind that made your thighs press together under the table because even when he looked like death was cradling him to sleep, he still exuded raw, masculine authority. That shirt hugged the width of his shoulders too perfectly. The way his wrist flexed when he shifted the fork, slow and heavy from exhaustion, sent an embarrassing ache curling low in my stomach.
The only thing more dangerous than the gun by his plate… was the man himself.
Adam sat beside Isabella, practically buried in his plate. Unlike the rest of us, he seemed completely unaware of the tension. I wished to be able to bask in a child-like innocence like him. His fork scraped against ceramic, bite after bite disappearing into his tiny mouth with unbothered delight. His cheeks puffed slightly as he chewed, occasionally humming with satisfaction under his breath. His joy should have eased the heaviness. It didn’t. It just made it more obvious how deeply broken the rest of us were.
The sound of his plate clinking was the only thing interrupting the silence. That and the barely-there hum of music playing from the hallway speaker, some old, scratchy song about shadows and longing. It barely registered, like a dream hanging in the corners of the room. The kind of song you only noticed because it felt like a ghost brushing your neck.
I sat at the far edge of the table, just diagonal from Adam. Close enough to see the crumbs on his lips, not close enough to smell the tomato sauce on his breath—not close enough to reach out. My hands were folded in my lap, knuckles tight against one another as I tried to keep them from moving. I ached to touch him. To stroke the back of his head and wipe his mouth with a napkin. But I didn’t dare. Not yet. Not until he let me.
Gael shifted again. Legs bouncing beneath the table. He finally pushed his plate a little forward, the scrape loud in the stillness. Then he spoke.
“I… have a shift at the hospital.” His voice was soft, almost apologetic. “It’s overnight. I—uh—I was wondering if… if I’m allowed to go?”
Everything stopped.
Dominic didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.
He just lifted his head. Slowly. Like something ancient waking from sleep. His neck craned ever so slightly, his shoulders stretching with the movement. And for a breathless second, he looked right at Gael, through him, really, with those heavy-lidded eyes.
The movement was slow. Deliberate. Lethal.
Dominic reached forward, never breaking eye contact. His fingers brushed against the wooden table before wrapping around the handle of his gun. He dragged it toward him, smooth and soundless, like he was petting a wild animal that might bare its teeth. His thumb stroked over the barrel once.
My breath caught.
Dominic leaned into the table. The light above him carved sharp shadows across his face: his cheekbones, his jaw, the tense muscle pulsing just under the surface. The golden hue from the hanging bulb flickered just slightly, illuminating the glint in his eyes. Sleepy. Dangerous. Almost bored.
“Why so twitchy, doc?” Dominic asked, voice low and husky from disuse. “You sick of our company already?”
Gael swallowed hard. I could see it. The bob of his throat. The way his hand gripped the edge of the table to ground himself.
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s not that. I just, I have patients. It’s a regular shift. If I miss it, someone might—”
Dominic clicked his tongue softly and cut him off. “Do I look like I give a shit about your shift?”
Silence again. Gael’s lips parted. Then closed.
Dominic leaned back slightly, but kept the gun close. His fingers drummed once on the table beside it. And even in that exhausted, half-dead state, there was no mistaking the threat behind his words.
“You leave when I say you can leave,” he muttered, gaze slipping lazily toward his untouched lasagna. “Not before.”
I watched as Gael gave the smallest of nods, his shoulders folding into themselves. His appetite was long gone, and it was clear now he hadn’t sat down to eat, he’d sat down to beg.
Adam’s fork scraped loudly against the plate again. Unbothered.
Isabella reached for her glass of wine with a hand that barely trembled. She didn’t look at either of them—just sipped. Stared ahead. Like none of this was happening.
And I…
I couldn’t stop looking at Dominic.
His eyes were drooping again, lids heavy with exhaustion. But beneath the blur of sleep, that heat still simmered. His hair stuck to his forehead in messy strands, damp from the shower, and his lips looked swollen from biting back the pain. He shifted in his seat slightly, the movement forcing the shirt to pull tight across his chest, stretching just enough to make my mind wander where it shouldn’t have.
Even now, even like this, Dominic looked like the kind of man who could ruin you without trying.
And God help me…
I wanted to be ruined.
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