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He simply waits.

“That’s it?” I ask, frowning slightly.

His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to ask me anything?” I clarify.

“You said you’re not ready,” Dean replies simply.

“Most people would still ask.”

“Then most people aren’t listening,” he says, holding my gaze.

Something inside my chest tightens.

His refusal to push somehow makes the rest of the words press harder against the back of my throat.

But I hold on to them.

For now, this is enough.

* * *

When we leave Salt & Oak, Dean’s hand settles at the small of my back as he guides me toward his truck.

It’s barely a touch.

My body reacts like he’s set me on fire.

The drive home is quiet, but the silence feels different tonight. Charged. Every glance between us feels loaded, and every inch of space separating us suddenly seems too small.

When we reach my cottage, Dean parks in the driveway.

Neither of us moves.

Again.

Apparently, this is becoming our thing.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say, turning toward him. “I had a really good time.”

“Anytime, Miss Morgan.” Dean gives me a small wink.

I look toward my cottage.

It seems lonelier than usual.

Then I look back at him.

“Do you want to come in?”

Dean goes completely still. His eyes search mine, like he’s trying to decide whether I really mean it.

“Blair,” he says carefully.

“What?” I ask, my confidence wavering slightly.

“You sure?”