Chapter 209 Wesley, I Want Some Milk Tea
Dorian stared fixedly at the liquid inside his glass.
The silence stretched long and lingering between them, letting Wesley’s random question hang heavily in the quiet room. If you were Jack, standing on that freezing edge, would you give up your own chance of survival just to keep Rose alive?
He did not offer an answer right away. Instead, he swirled the golden whiskey around in his glass.
When he finally opened his mouth, his voice was low, low and rough around the edges.
"I am not Jack."
Wesley let out a quiet sigh, leaning his back against the soft cushions behind him.
Honestly, he had expected that exact kind of answer. Dorian was never the romantic type. He was not dramatic, and he certainly was not sentimental about anything in life. Ever since they were little kids playing together, Dorian had been naturally aloof. He was reserved, distant, and completely reclusive when it came to his own heart.
Wesley could still vividly remember the young boy he had grown up with years ago. He was the child who always stood quietly near the outer edges of crowded parties, silently watching everyone else laugh without joining in. He was the one who never cried when he got hurt, who never laughed too loud, and who never let a single person get close enough to see inside.
He had always been built that way. Cool, perfectly controlled, and completely unreachable.
Wesley had held on to a small hope that maybe, just maybe, growing up or getting married would change him a little. But looking across the table tonight, nothing had changed at all.
Wesley shifted forward, resting his forearms against the table surface to look straight into his friend’s tired eyes.
"Jack and Rose only knew each other for three short days," Wesley pointed out gently. "Just three days. And yet, when the moment came, he gave up his whole life for her without a second thought."
Dorian kept his mouth shut, staring straight ahead as if he were listening to a lecture about a complete stranger.
"If you ever allowed yourself to love someone that deeply, that completely," Wesley continued softly, "you might find yourself making the exact same choice."
Dorian’s jaw tightened instantly, a small muscle jumping along his pale cheek.
"You do not know what you are talking about."
"I know you better than you think," Wesley said, pausing to let the words sink in. "You fell completely in love with a woman whose real name you do not even know. A woman whose face you have never seen clearly in broad daylight. You have spent three entire years of your life searching for her across the country."
He looked steadily at Dorian’s stiff posture.
"That is real devotion. That is the exact same kind of deep, crazy love that Jack had."
Dorian’s hand froze right where it was, his fingers gripping the cold glass just a little tighter.
His thoughts instantly drifted back to Iris. He thought of the thick, tangled forest, the endless quiet of that night, and the mysterious woman who had knelt beside him. He remembered the soft, steady warmth of her hands as she held him close, shielding him from the cold and saving his life when he had nothing left.
He had loved her then. He still loved her memory now. He had spent three exhausting years scouring every lead just to find her again.
But then, without his permission, another face suddenly invaded his mind. Veyra.
He remembered the bright, sudden way she laughed when something amused her. He remembered how she stood her ground and challenged him whenever he was being difficult. He thought of the way she had fiercely defended him, and the quiet, heartbreaking moment she had cried right against his chest.
A sharp, tight ache flared up deep inside his chest, catching him completely off guard.
Against his own will, he had developed real feelings for her. He did not want to admit it out loud, not even to himself. He hated the idea of accepting it because it felt like a betrayal of everything he had been searching for.
Yet, no matter how hard he tried to push it down, the truth was sitting right there. He cared for her.
And realizing that fact made him feel ten times more agitated and restless than he was before.
Unable to handle the sudden knot of messy emotions tightening in his chest, he reached out for the bottle once again.
He tipped it over and poured another brimmed glass of whiskey. Then another one immediately after. He drank them down fast, swallowing the burning liquid in long, hungry gulps, one right after the other without taking a single breath.
The strong alcohol burned a harsh, painful trail straight down his throat, but he welcomed the sharp sting.
He wanted the burn. He desperately wanted to forget everything for a few hours. He wanted to numb his racing head, stop the endless thoughts, and completely shut down every single feeling he had been carrying around.
Wesley sat across from him and simply watched the self-destructive spiral happen.
He could not help but notice the bruised, purple circles hanging underneath Dorian’s bloodshot eyes. He saw the faint, steady tremor in Dorian’s fingers as he set the glass back down, and he noticed that the plates of warm food sitting between them had barely been touched at all.
The man was completely running on empty. He had not slept properly in days, he had not eaten a real meal, and his body was practically exhausted to the bone.
Because his system was so worn out, it did not take much alcohol to push him right over the edge.
Three full glasses turned into four, and four turned into five. Before long, Dorian’s quiet, sharp speech began to slow down into a low murmur. His heavy eyelids drooped, his physical movements became loose and unsteady, and the thick, stubborn guard he always kept up finally began to crumble to pieces.
Wesley did not try to stop him from drinking. Instead, he quietly signaled the server for another drink, wanting Dorian to reach the point where he would finally let out whatever was tearing him up inside.
As the hours crept by, the night outside grew longer and quiet settled over the city.
Dorian was practically slumped over in his soft leather chair now. His eyes looked glossy, unfocused, and heavily glazed over, while his chest rose and fell in slow, ragged breaths.
Wesley leaned forward across the table, dropping his voice down to a calm, gentle murmur.
"Dorian," he said, watching his friend closely. "Tell me what is really going on with you."
Dorian did not utter a single sound, his chin resting near his chest.
"Is it trouble at the company?" Wesley tried asking.
No response came. Just slow, rhythmic breathing.
"Is it about Iris? Did something happen with the search?"
Dorian’s heavy head shifted upward by a tiny fraction, but his eyes stayed half-closed.
"Is it about Veyra?" Wesley asked softly.
Dorian froze completely. Every small movement in his shoulders stopped dead in its tracks.
Then, after a long, agonizing pause, he finally spoke up. His voice sounded thick, raspy, and completely slurred together.
"I want some milk tea."
Wesley blinked, caught completely off guard by the random words.
"Milk tea?" he repeated, making sure he heard correctly.
"Yes," Dorian grumbled, his brow furrowing together. "I want milk tea."
Wesley stared at him in utter disbelief. "Dorian, you are completely drunk right now. You do not actually want milk tea."
"I want milk tea," Dorian insisted, his tone turning surprisingly stubborn, almost like a frustrated child refusing to go to bed. "I want the exact kind that she makes."
Wesley raised both of his eyebrows high in surprise. "She?"
"Veyra," Dorian muttered softly, his chin dropping back down a bit. "She made me milk tea before. It was actually really good. But I took it and threw it right in the trash."
He slowly lifted his eyes to look at Wesley. The glassy surface of his eyes looked unusually soft and wet under the light.
"I should not have thrown it away," he whispered, sounding thoroughly miserable. "I really should not have done that."
Wesley leaned back into his seat, the puzzle pieces instantly fitting together in his mind.
He suddenly remembered what Veyra had told him earlier during dinner. He remembered her talking about the home-brewed milk tea and how hurt she felt when she found out it had been tossed into the garbage can.
At the time, Wesley had not fully understood the whole picture. He had simply assumed Dorian was being his usual difficult, cold-hearted self.
But sitting here now, looking at Dorian’s flushed, miserable face and hearing the genuine regret slurring out of his mouth, the truth hit him clearly.
Dorian truly regretted doing that. He regretted tossing her gift aside, he regretted pushing her away, and he regretted the stupid cold war that had built up between them ever since.
Wesley quickly pulled his phone out from his coat pocket and unlocked the screen.
"Where did she get that milk tea from?" Wesley asked, looking up at him.
Dorian did not answer. His head was already leaning back against the high chair, his eyes drifting shut as he slipped further into a drunken daze.
Realizing he would get no more answers out of him, Wesley scrolled through his contact list until he found Veyra’s name. He quickly typed out a brief text message:
Where did you get the milk tea you gave Dorian? The one he threw away?
He hit send and set the phone on the table.