"Robin, no." Toby bats his hands away, but he's laughing. "You'll embarrass me."
Robin.
The roommate.
Who's a very attractive man. A very attractive man who'stouchingToby, who lives with Toby, who bakes Toby cakes and drives a seventy-thousand-dollar car and looks like he stepped out of a fucking cologne advertisement.
"I'm not embarrassing! I'm delightful!" Robin opens the trunk, pulling out what looks like pastry boxes. Multiple pastry boxes. "Besides, I want to see if they're as hot as you said."
"I didn't say they were hot!"
"Tobes, you were practically purring about golden eyes and motorcycle rides." Robin hands Toby several boxes, then uses his free hand to fix Toby's collar. His fingers linger on Toby's neck, adjusting, smoothing. "You absolutely said they were hot."
My lion is going to kill him.
Pretty boy or not, expensive car or not, if he doesn't stoptouching—
"They're coming in," Jason hisses, scrambling back from the window. "Everyone look casual. Look like we're working. Vaughn, put down the sandwich."
"I'm eating."
"Eat later. Boss, stop growling."
I wasn't aware I was growling. I make myself stop, unclenching my jaw, trying to force my expression into something that isn't murderous.
The door swings open.
Toby comes through first, balancing three pastry boxes, his face slightly flushed. Robin is right behind him with two more boxes, his eyes already scanning the room with obvious appreciation. His gaze slides over Jason, lingers on Vaughn, catalogues Silas and Ezra, and finally lands on me.
His smile sharpens into something knowing.
"Hi!" Toby spots Jason and relief crosses his face. "You're here. Good. We brought thank-you tarts."
"We?" Jason is looking between Toby and Robin with barely concealed glee.
"This is Robin, my roommate. He made everything and insisted on driving me because apparently I looked like, and I quote, 'death warmed over in a microwave' this morning."
"You got hardly any sleep," Robin says, setting his boxes on the workbench. He's still looking at me, still wearing that knowing smile. "And you must be Knox."
I don't respond. Can't, really, because my lion is havingopinionsabout this man who smells like vanilla and butter and expensive cologne and has definitely been touching Toby today. Recently. Repeatedly.
"Oh my god, you really are lions," Robin continues, apparently unbothered by my silence. His eyes are bright with delight. "That's so hot. The whole motorcycle club predator thing? Very sexy. I totally get why Toby came home all—"
"ROBIN." Toby's face is crimson. "The tarts. Give them the tarts and get in the car."
"Fine, fine." Robin starts opening boxes with practiced efficiency. "Lemon tarts, brown butter cookies, eclairs, and I threw in some cream puffs because stress-baking is my love language and Toby was very stressed last night."
The boxes reveal rows of perfect pastries—golden and glazed and arranged with the precision of someone who does this professionally. Even annoyed, I can recognize skill. Robin knows what he's doing in a kitchen.
"Your roommate stress-bakes?" Jason asks, already reaching for a lemon tart.
"Constantly." Toby's still blushing, avoiding my eyes. "He works for a catering company. He's saving up to start his own."
"I stress-bake, success-bake, boredom-bake," Robin lists, ticking them off on his fingers. He leans against Toby casually as he talks, their shoulders pressed together. "Last week I made three wedding cakes just because Toby mentioned wanting cake."
Three wedding cakes. Because Tobymentionedwanting cake.
The casual intimacy between them is making my teeth itch. The way Robin stands too close, well inside Toby's personal space. The way he reaches over to fix Toby's hairagain, tucking a stray strand behind his ear. The way he thumbs a smudge off Toby's cheek like it's nothing like he's allowed to touch, like Toby belongs to him.
