Dylan descended the stairs with a satisfied expression, his jian strapped to his waist, heels brushing the steps as if he were choosing them one by one, careful not to startle the wood. Behind him, the two women had remained upstairs. Élisa and Maggie, busy talking about "women stuff" — in other words, things that, according to them, he had neither the right nor the capacity to hear or comment on.
And Dylan, as carefree as he liked to act, wasn't entirely stupid. He knew damn well what they were about to talk about. But he knew just enough to not know when to shut up.
"You're gonna talk about your period crap, aren't you?" he'd thrown over his shoulder as he slammed the door, smirking — a ridiculous display of bravado.
Élisa had gone even paler than she already was — which was saying something — and Maggie had stared him down with a look so sharp it could've skinned him alive on the spot.
