“No.”
“Itwas. Jacob Wolfe smiles. Alert the press.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are. Talking to me.”
“Pity.”
Liam bumped his shoulder, grinning. “Liar.”
Jacob studied him again, long enough that Liam felt it in his chest. “Do you ever turn it off?”
“Turn what off?”
“That thing you do. The smiles. The talking. That… glow.”
Liam snorted. “Jesus, Wolfe. I’m not sunshine.”
“You are.” Jacob’s pale eyes pinned him. “People orbit around you. I’ve been watching.”
Liam stilled.
“You make people feel like they matter,” Jacob went on.
His chest pulled tight. “And that’s… bad?”
“No.” Jacob’s gaze lingered a beat longer. “It’s dangerous.”
Before Liam could figure out what the hellthatmeant, one of the producers called Jacob’s name from across the terrace.
Jacob didn’t move right away. For a moment, it was just the two of them, something raw flickering between them. Then, like a switch flipped, his posture shifted, armor sliding back into place. Liam felt it—the wall slamming down. The eyes that had been open a moment ago shut him out again.
“I should go,” Jacob said, voice steady now, as if the slip had never happened.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Liam stood frozen with a drink forgotten in his hand as Jacob walked away and the city lights blurred beyond the glass. For the first time, it hadn’t felt like Jacob had merely tolerated him; it had felt like he had truly seen him. The loss of it settled behind his sternum, and the emptiness that followed lodged under his ribs like a stone.
***
The front door clicked shut behind him. He slipped out of his shoes and padded down the hallway, careful not to wake Emma if she’d gone to bed. The house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and lavender, the kind of scent that clung to home. Sometimes the sudden quiet after noise pressed too loud in his head, but tonight it was almost a relief.
Emma wasn’t asleep. She was curled up on the couch, throw blanket pulled over her legs and a pillow wedged under her arm. Something British flickered on the television—probably something involving a tragic love letter that never got sent.
“You’re home,” she murmured, looking up.
Liam smiled gently. “Turns out I can only be charming for so long.”
She muted the TV and turned toward him. Her dark hair was twisted into a messy knot and glasses were perched on her nose. She looked beautiful—she always did—but tonight that simplicity and steadiness struck deeper. His chest ached with it, maybe because he’d just come from Jacob’s orbit, and nothing about that man left him steady.
“You didn’t love it?”
“No. It was… fine.” He dropped onto the couch beside her, head tipping back against the cushion. “The usual mixer stuff. Booze. Networking. At least one guy who used ‘synergy’ like he meant it.”
She gave him a wry look. “The horror.”
Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking lightly. “You’re tense. Bad day?”
