“And the entire thing tipped,” I counter. “I was sitting right there.” I nod toward the far end. “Drink in my hand. Watched it happen in slow motion.”
Gage snorts. “Yeah, and you didn’t even flinch. Just lifted your feet and said, ‘Wow. That’s gonna be expensive.’”
“And it was, wasn’t it?” I ask, laughing softly now.
He drops his head back with a quiet groan. “It cost six months of detailing Rafe’s truckandmy longboard.”
My brows lift, my lips parting in shock. “It did not.”
“It absolutely did.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he shakes his head. “That asshole.” His laugh—that deep, familiar rumble I used to feel against my cheek when we'd lie tangled together—echoes off the dining room walls. My ribs tighten around something warm and bittersweet. “But he fixed it,” he adds, tapping his knuckles twice against the wood, “and more importantly, Ma never found out.”
I shake my head, lips curving around memories I can almost taste. My voice drops to barely a whisper, the sound nearlyswallowed by the polished walls. “We had fun, didn't we.” Not a question—a confession that slips out and hovers between us like the dust motes catching in the chandelier's glow.
Gage's laughter trails off, the last echo of it catching in his throat. His gaze finds mine across the table, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of blue remains. The air between us thickens with each silent second.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice dropping to that rough-velvet register that I used to feel whispered against my skin. “We did.”
The air between us shifts like a tide changing direction. His eyes soften at the corners, the way they used to when we'd stay up talking until sunrise. I find myself leaning forward slightly, my fingers inching across the table's surface until they're close enough to his that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin without actually touching. My chest expands with a breath, and when I exhale, the tension in my shoulders releases with it.
I let the silence gather. There’s a gravity to it, like we’re both holding our breath in the space where the past and the present overlap. Gage’s gaze drops to my hands, then back up, and I know he can see the shiver in my fingertips.
The air in here is thick, sweet, as if the whole room is holding its own secret: the memory of something reckless and undeniably good.
He sets the plate down on the table with a soft clink. His fingers curl around my waist, cool against my skin, thumbs pressing gently into the dip above my hipbones. The room spins slightly as he guides me backward—one step, two—until the backs of my thighs meet the table's edge. His eyes never leave mine, pupils wide in the dim light.
For a heartbeat I'm weightless, suspended between his strength and the table's solidity. When he sets me down, the cool mahogany meets the backs of my thighs with gentle precision, as if I'm made of something that might shatter.
The veins in his forearms stand out as he steadies me, then vanish as his grip relaxes. My knees drift apart. The rough fabric of his swimtrunks brushes the inside of my thighs, leaving droplets of pool water that slide slowly down my skin as he steps between my legs.
He places the plate between us, a single piece of tiramisu on a navy blue plate. His fingertips linger on the edge, brushing mine as I reach for it.
“I saved you the last piece,” he says, voice dropping to that private register that makes my skin warm. “Had to fight off three people for it.”
“My hero,” I murmur, letting my gaze drift from the dessert to his mouth and back again. “Are we sharing the spoils of war?”
His eyes flick to my mouth. Then back up. “Do you want to share?”
The alcohol hums warmly through my veins—not enough to blur anything, just enough to make me brave. Enough to make me want to play. I'm aware of everything: the scent of sugar and cocoa, the heat of his body between my knees, the way his thumb idly traces the inside of my wrist where my hand rests on the table. Each circle he draws sends little sparks racing up my arm.
I pick up the fork, letting my fingers brush his as I do.
And he watches me likeI'mthe thing he's craving.
I scoop a careful bite, the mascarpone soft and rich, cocoa dusting the top. I bring it to my mouth first, letting the fork linger against my lower lip before pulling it away untouched. His eyes track the movement. I hesitate just long enough to see his pupils dilate, then lift the fork toward him.
He leans in without breaking eye contact.
His lips part just enough to accept the fork, the metal disappearing between them with excruciating slowness. My wrist trembles slightly. The fork scrapes against his teeth—a small, metallic sound that shouldn't affect me but does, sendinggoosebumps racing down my arms. My thighs tense against the edge of the table.
His tongue darts out, collecting every last trace of sweetness before he draws back.
I want to press my knees together, to relieve some of the blossoming ache in my core.
He licks his lips, slow and deliberate, as if savoring not just the taste but the effect it has on me. His hand covers mine, skin to skin, his thumb anchoring the delicate bones of my wrist to the table. I could break the contact if I wanted to, but I don’t. I want him to take it further, to see if he’ll follow through or just let the tension float between us, unspent.
His fingers curl around mine, warm and firm. “Your turn.”
The fork hovers between us, laden with another bite. His eyes never leave mine as he guides my hand toward my lips, the metal cool against my tongue. My breath catches as his thumb traces a slow circle against my inner wrist. Heat blooms low in my belly, spreading outward until even my fingertips tingle. The dessert melts, forgotten, as his gaze falls to my lips when I swallow.
