Making out.
Gray’s back is pressed against the far wall, Wes’s hands braced on either side of his head, and they’re kissing like the world might end if they stop. Wes’s dark curls are messed up from Gray’s fingers, andGray’s usual careful control is completely gone, replaced by something raw and hungry that makes my breath catch.
I just stand there. Staring. Like my brain has completely forgotten how to process what my eyes are seeing.
We all freeze at exactly the same moment.
Three pairs of eyes. Complete silence except for the sound of someone’s ragged breathing—might be mine.
I slam the door shut.
Stand there in the hallway like an idiot, heart hammering against my ribs.
Nope. Nope nope nope. Did not see that. Definitely did not see Gray looking like that. Definitely did not notice the way Wes—
I crack the door open again.
They’re both still there.
Because really—where the hell would they go?
And now they’re staring at me. Gray’s face is flushed, lips slightly swollen, looking guilty but also… not. Like he’s been caught but isn’t particularly sorry about it.
Wes just looks amused.
I take a deep breath—trying to look like I’m just getting my bearings and not like I’m drowning in whatever the hell this feeling is—and push the door open wider.
“Uh.” The word comes out like I’ve forgotten how language works. “Don’t mind me. Just… pancakes.”
Of course the flour is right there on the shelf. Right between them. Because the universe apparently has a sense of humor and it’s terrible.
“The flour is…” I gesture vaguely, hoping one of them will just grab it and toss it to me so I can disappear back to the kitchen and pretend this never happened.
Instead, Wes steps back just enough to clear a path, and the smile that curves his lips is pure trouble. Like he can see right through my casual deflection to whatever is churning underneath.
“Go ahead,” Wes says, voice low and still slightly breathless. “We’re not stopping you.”
I have to step into the pantry. Have to reach between their bodies, close enough to catch the heat radiating off Gray’s skin, close enough to see the way Wes’s pupils are dilated in the dim light.
My fingers hover for just a second—this is inevitable, but that doesn’t make it easier—before I grab the flour. The brush against Gray’s arm as I pull back is soft, brief, electric.
Gray inhales sharply. When I glance up, Wes is watching me with something that looks almost like recognition. Like he knows exactly what that accidental contact did to my pulse.
“Sorry,” I mutter, backing toward the door with the flour clutched against my chest like armor. “Didn’t mean to… interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” Gray says quietly, but there’s something in his voice I can’t quite identify.
Wes doesn’t say anything. Just watches me retreat with that small, knowing smile that makes my stomach flip in ways I don’t want to think about right now. Maybe ever.
I escape back to the kitchen and immediately throw myself into mixing batter with way more enthusiasm than the task requires. Whisk clattering against the bowl, measuring cups banging against thecounter—anything to make enough noise to drown out the replay loop my brain seems determined to run.
It’s fine. Totally fine. So what if Gray and Wes are… whatever that was. So what if Gray’s hands were in Wes’s hair and Wes was looking at him like he wanted to devour him whole. So what if they both looked at me like—
Nope. Not going there.
I focus on the batter. Flour, eggs, milk, a splash of vanilla. Simple. Straightforward. Nothing complicated about pancakes. Nothing emotional. Just flour, eggs, milk. Breakfast, not a breakdown. Nothing that requires me to think about the way Gray’s shoulders looked pressed against that wall, or the sound Wes made when I brushed past him, or the fact that I apparently have opinions about both of those things.
When did that happen?
