Dawson spotted his father across the bar and immediately regretted noticing.
Not because Oliver was doing anything wrong.
Because the second Dawson realized who he was talking to, every immature instinct he possessed woke up at once.
The fae woman was pretty. That much was obvious. Auburn hair, flowers woven through the vines tangled around it, bright eyes fixed on whatever conversation she'd been having before Dawson arrived.
Which meant there was still time to ruin it.
Perfect.
He drifted over without invitation, stopping beside the bar and taking a pull from his beer before speaking.
"Question."
His attention landed squarely on the fae.
"Has he gotten to the tragic werewolf backstory yet, or are you two still in the fun facts portion of the evening?"
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"If we're still early, you've probably got moon phases coming up next."
Dawson lifted his bottle slightly.
"Don't get me wrong. Love wolves. Big fan. Five stars. But we really overshare as a species."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Oliver before returning to her.
"I figured somebody should intervene before you accidentally left here knowing the entire history of Crescent territory."
A beat.
Then, with complete sincerity:
"Also, for the record, the flower thing is objectively cooler than anything we've got going on."
He leaned casually against the bar.
"So. Dawson. The old man here's son."
A small gesture toward himself.
"And before either of you continue whatever this was, I need to know if those flowers bloom when you're happy, angry, or if they're just making the rest of us look bad on purpose."
Oliver saw the blonde male approaching before he could open his mouth and pulled the female out of the situation. "Daws- Dawson." He stated through grit teeth and forced himself to smile as the fae looked between them with increasing confusion. "Will you just--" He growled. "I'm sorry about him." He tried to apologize, but Dawson leaned himself against the bar and continued to inject himself into the conversation.
Then came those words. Old man here's son. Oliver felt a small knot twist in his gut and words failed him for a split-second. At the same moment, the female took a small step backwards and held her hands up. "I'm sorry. Maybe we'll catch one another some other time?" She offered, but the speed at which she shuffled away told Oliver that time would be very far off.
An irritated sigh escaped him and he folded his arms as he regarded the man. "What the hell?" He started and shoved at Dawson's shoulder. "You're supposed to be a wingman for your old man, not a cockblock.... seriously." He grumbled through the awkwardness of referring to himself so... paternally. "Seriously, what was that? Look, if you're acting out about me flirting with someone that isn't your mother you're about two decades too late for that." He stated sarcastically. And a few years more. The words went unspoken. Oliver hadn't exactly been close to the woman even back in 2011.











