“Water is fine.” Gabriel shrugs off his jacket, revealing a black button-down that hugs the contours of his chest and shoulders.
I head to the kitchen, eager for distance, and fill a glass from the tap. The pipes knock in protest, water sputtering before running clear. When I turn back, Gabriel has spotted the one thing in my apartment with meaning.
He stands by the coffee table, head tilted as he studies the oversized art book lying open to a spread of Norman Rockwell paintings. His finger traces a page, curiosity evident in the furrow of his brow.
The book is the one indulgence I allow myself, and the pages are worn from repeated viewing,corners dog-eared to mark favorite images. A relic from my shitty years in the group homes, when I’d hide in the public library for hours, losing myself in depictions of a world I’d never experience.
“Norman Rockwell.” Gabriel’s head lifts in surprise. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I cross the room in three strides and close the book with more force than necessary, sliding it beneath a stack of mail. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad.” He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I like Rockwell, too. ‘The Problem We All Live With’ is one of my favorites.”
The title sounds familiar, but I’ve never bothered to learn their names. What stays with me are the images of families at dinner tables, children on Christmas morning, all the dozens of moments of kindness and connection displayed in the paintings, like glimpses through windows into an alternate universe.
“It was a gift,” I lie, handing him the water glass with enough force to slosh liquid over the rim.
“Thoughtful gift,” he says, sounding like he doesn’t believe me, but not pushing the topic.
I turn away, moving to a cabinet where a bottle of whiskey sits half-empty beside a stack of chippedmugs. My hands are steady as I pour a generous measure, but heat crawls up my neck. Gabriel hasn’t seen this piece of me that I’ve kept hidden.
The whiskey burns going down, washing away the embarrassment. I pour another, then carry the bottle to the couch and sit, knees spread, claiming space in my own territory.
“You promised your mouth could do more than talk,” I remind him, glass dangling from my fingers. “Or was that a lie so I wouldn’t leave you on the street?”
Gabriel sets his water on the coffee table untouched as he takes in my defensive posture, the challenge in my stance, and the whiskey clutched in my hand. “We could take our time. Set a mood first.”
I laugh, the sound harsh in the small room. “If you want ambiance, you can walk back to Blue Note. They’ve got all the candles and mood lighting you need.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, moving with the same graceful confidence he showed at the docks. “I meant we could talk. Get to know each other beyond…”
“Beyond what?” I drain my glass, setting it down with a sharp click. “Beyond you stalking me at work?Beyond you showing up at the Blue Note? Beyond whatever game you’re playing?”
Gabriel doesn’t flinch at my accusations, and his calm infuriates me. “Beyond what we both want right now.”
My body responds to the desire for connection in the offer, heat pooling in my groin despite my best efforts.
“If you’ve changed your mind, you can leave anytime.” I spread my legs wider in an unmistakable demand and don’t look away. “Door’s right there.”
It’s an out, offered before this goes further. What I’m offering is physical release without emotional access. I’ll use his body but keep my own barriers in place.
Gabriel doesn’t move toward the door. His pupils expand as he takes a step closer, then another, until he stands in front of me. His fingers reach for my cheek, and I flinch away from the unexpected tenderness of the gesture.
“No touching my face,” I snap, establishing another boundary.
He accepts this new rule without question, redirecting his hand to my shoulder instead, and the warmth of his palm sends currents of awareness through my skin. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah.” I reach for his hip, pulling him closer until he stands between my spread legs. “I don’t kiss, so don’t even try that mushy shit.”
Gabriel’s pupils expand, black consuming amber. “Understood.”
“And this changes nothing between us.” My fingers flex around his body. “Tomorrow, you go back to being the annoying rich boy at the club, and I go back to ignoring you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, already confident of the outcome.
The challenge in those two words sends a spike of adrenaline through me. I should shut this down now, push him away, end whatever this is before it complicates the careful isolation I’ve constructed around my life.
Instead, I tighten my grip on his hip. “Don’t you have something to prove right now?”
