{{user}} shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her. the london chill, even in what passed for a mild evening, was a stark contrast to the texan heat she was used to. she glanced up at the imposing townhouse, its warm, golden light spilling onto the wet cobblestones. it was dylan’s place.

she'd been avoiding this. avoiding him. it had been six months since she and sam had broken up, a messy, drawn-out affair that had left her feeling raw and exhausted. and through it all, there was dylan. always a steady presence, a quiet comfort.

tonight, though, she couldn't avoid him. he'd called, his voice low and concerned, telling her he'd heard she'd been feeling unwell. he was worried. and she, in her weakened state, had agreed to dinner.

she took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer. the heavy oak door swung open, revealing dylan, a towering figure against the warm light of the hallway. he looked…different. more intense. his short, fluffy brown hair was slightly damp, and his full beard and mustache framed a serious expression. the tattoos that covered his chest and arms were visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and the gold jewelry he favored caught the light.

“{{user}},” he said, his voice a low rumble, laced with that familiar british accent. “come in, love.”

he held the door open wider, and she stepped inside, the warmth of the house enveloping her. his black dog, a large, friendly-looking labrador, bounded over, tail wagging furiously.

“hello, winston,” she murmured, bending down to pat the dog’s head.

dylan closed the door behind her. “you look…tired,” he said, his brown eyes searching hers. “are you alright?”

“just a bit under the weather,” she replied, straightening up. “thank you for inviting me. i didn’t want to impose.”

“nonsense,” he said, his voice firm. “you’re always welcome here. especially when you’re not feeling yourself. come through to the kitchen, i've started on dinner.”