Dylan knew the theory of dates. Every guy did even if you hadn't been on them. You bought the girl popcorn, you sat beside her in a movie theater, you walked her to her door and you kissed goodnight. So far, so PG. Nights on the couch with G watching bad movies about romance that would survive people dying with G fake-choking on popcorn and flipping the channel.
He wasn't thinking about failed warriors in braids. Thought a little about the princess, the one who probably had dead dragons as a doorstep present or something, witches routed out except Dylan didn't have nothing except himself on that doorstep as the door opened and Molly nosed his hand and licked his knuckles wet.
And yeah, Dyl didn't expect the dress. He hadn't really thought about the way M would look. Funny, right? But he hadn't, and it was short and blue and the kind of thing the guys on base would call 'knock-out'. It was a knock-out dress. He pet the dog's ears as he took in the dress, silent contemplation and solemn assessment. It was a good dress. Short. Super short. He flushed, back of the neck midwestern small town and he stubbed the toe of his sneaker against her doorstep.
No braid. Dylan smiled at her, because there was no good way of putting all of it, the Maryness of it, into words. "Hi." Wasn't much of a word for the weight of all that wasn't said loaded onto it, but he tried.
She reached and he held out a hand, unthinking - wiping it, briefly, on the back of his jeans to dry it from the dog. Looped his fingers around hers, and Dyl was careful. Gentle. Was only a few hours since he'd pounded the crap out of someone and he didn't want inadvertent hurt to M.
"You look pretty." Because she did. The dress was loud and short and M was pretty in it.