The silence in the living room was heavy, broken only by the soft clink of ice cubes melting in a glass. Mason stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest, while Dylan poured himself a scotch at the bar.
"You want one?" Dylan offered casually, motioning toward the bottle.
"No." Mason's voice was tight.
Dylan raised a brow and took a slow sip. "Alright then."
Mason turned around sharply. "What are you doing?"
Dylan didn't answer immediately. He walked to the sofa and sat down, legs stretched out like he had no care in the world. "You'll have to be more specific, son."
Mason's jaw clenched. "With Lana. What are you doing with her?"
There it was.
Dylan looked up at him with an unreadable expression, then placed his glass down carefully. "She's injured. I'm helping her recover. That's it."
"Don't play dumb, Dad." Mason took a step forward. "I saw how you were with her. The laughing, the way you look at her. You don't even try to hide it."
Dylan let out a quiet sigh and leaned forward. "You're angry."
"You think?" Mason snapped. "She's my friend. She's my age. And you—what, you think it's okay to just flirt with her like that?"
"I didn't flirt with her."
"Don't lie to me."
Dylan's eyes darkened. "Fine. Maybe I was being… careless with my words. But I'm not lying when I say I care about her well-being. I wasn't trying to cross a line."
Mason scoffed. "You don't see it, do you? She's not just any girl. She's not someone you can charm and toss aside."
"I never said she was," Dylan said evenly. "I know she's different."
"Then why are you acting like this?" Mason demanded. "Do you even realize how weird it is? How confusing this is for her? For me?"
Dylan stood slowly, now facing his son eye to eye. "You think I don't know this is complicated? You think I haven't questioned myself every time I look at her?"
"Then stop looking."
That silenced the room.
Dylan stared at his son for a long moment. "I never meant to hurt you, Mason. And I'm not trying to take anything from you."
"She's not something to take," Mason said coldly.
"I know," Dylan said quietly.
For a beat, neither of them spoke.
Then Mason shook his head, backing away. "I don't want this to become something we'll regret. You're my dad. She's my friend. Just… stay away."
Dylan's jaw tightened.
Mason turned and walked upstairs, each step echoing with frustration and confusion.
Dylan sat back down, the ice in his drink now melted completely. He stared into the glass, his own reflection staring back at him with something between guilt and longing.
He whispered to himself, "What the hell are you doing, Dylan?"
And he had no answer.
_________________________________
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Orwell mansion, casting golden hues across the polished floors. The house was already stirring. In the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and buttery croissants wafted through the air.
Mason stepped in, still in his T-shirt and joggers, hair tousled from sleep. He nodded a silent good morning to the chef, who was plating a delicate breakfast—scrambled eggs with herbs, a slice of avocado toast, and a small bowl of fruit. A separate tray already had a cup of coffee, perfectly prepared just the way Lana liked it after he'd asked the cook last night to make sure.
"I'll take that up to Lana," Mason said, reaching for the tray.
But just as his fingers brushed the handle, another hand slid in and took it first.
Dylan.
He was already dressed, looking infuriatingly composed in a navy sweater and slacks, holding the tray like he'd done it a hundred times.
Mason blinked. "You're bringing her breakfast?"
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "I was up early. Figured I'd check in on her before heading to work."
"I was going to take it."
"You were," Dylan said smoothly. "But now I am."
The air between them tensed.
"She's my friend," Mason muttered, voice low.
"And she's my guest," Dylan replied, keeping his tone even but firm.
For a moment, neither moved, a silent push and pull crackling between them. Then, with a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Dylan turned and walked out of the kitchen, breakfast tray in hand.
Mason stood still, staring after him with narrowed eyes and a storm in his chest.
He wasn't sure what bothered him more the fact that his father beat him to it… or the way Lana might smile when she opened the door.