“So,” Finn said finally, his hand still cradling Ollie’s face, “I was thinking maybe we could grab dinner? There’s that new place on Main Street everyone’s been talking about.”
The invitation hung between them, simple on the surface but laden with possibility. Dinner meant more time together, more conversation, more of whatever was building between them. And after dinner…? Well, that was a bridge they could cross when they came to it.
Ollie’s smile was answer enough, but he nodded anyway, his eyes bright with anticipation. “I’d like that,” he said softly. “I’d like that a lot.”
As they stood, hands finding each other again as naturally as breathing, Finn felt something settle in his chest—not certainty, exactly, but a kind of quiet hope. Whatever happened next, whatever complications lay ahead, this moment felt right. Felt like the beginning of something worth fighting for.
THIRTEEN
Finn studied Ollie across the restaurant table, watching how the soft lighting caught in his curls and glinted off his glasses. Their empty plates had been cleared away twenty minutes ago, and they’d lingered over coffee that had gone cold. The restaurant had gradually emptied around them, but Finn was reluctant to signal for the check, to end this night that felt significant in ways he couldn’t fully articulate.
“I should probably let you get home,” Ollie said, though his expression suggested he was equally unwilling to leave. “It’s getting late.”
Finn hesitated, his heart picking up speed. “Or…” he began, then paused, uncharacteristically uncertain.
Ollie tilted his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Or?”
“It’s not often I have the house to myself,” Finn said, the words coming out in a rush. “If you wanted to come back to my place. For coffee. Or something.”
“Something?” Ollie repeated, his eyes crinkling with amusement behind his glasses.
Finn felt heat creep up his neck. “Yeah, I’m sure we can figure out something. I’m not ready for tonight to end.”
The simple honesty in his voice seemed to shift something between them. Ollie’s playful expression softened into something more vulnerable.
“I’m not either,” he admitted quietly.
The drive to Finn’s house was charged with anticipation, the silence between them comfortable but electric. Finn was acutely aware of Ollie beside him in the passenger seat, of his profile illuminated by passing streetlights, of the faint scent of his cologne.
When they arrived, Finn led Ollie up the walkway, suddenly self-conscious about his modest home. He fumbled slightly with the keys, hyperaware of Ollie standing close behind him.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said automatically as they stepped inside, though the house was, as always, meticulously tidy.
Ollie smiled, glancing around the entryway. “If this is your definition of messy, I’d hate to see what you think of my apartment.”
The comment eased some of Finn’s tension. He hung up their coats, then hesitated. “Coffee? Or tea? Or I have beer, wine…”
“Tea would be nice,” Ollie said, following Finn toward the kitchen. “This is cozy.”
Finn busied himself with filling the kettle, grateful for the familiar routine to occupy his hands. Ollie wandered around thekitchen, examining the photographs on the refrigerator, the row of cookbooks on the shelf, the ceramic mug Brooklyn had made Finn for Father’s Day years ago.
“Your home feels like you,” Ollie commented, leaning against the counter to watch Finn work. “Warm. Thoughtful. Put together.”
Finn glanced over his shoulder, caught off guard by the observation. “Is that a good thing?”
“It’s a very good thing,” Ollie assured him, his voice soft.
The kettle whistled, breaking the moment. Finn turned back to prepare their tea, hyper-focused on the simple task to distract himself from the nervous energy humming through his body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive.
Finn set two steaming mugs of tea on the kitchen counter, acutely aware of every sound in the quiet house. The absence of Brooklyn’s chatter and music created a different atmosphere tonight, an intimacy that wrapped around them like a blanket. Or maybe that sensation came from Ollie, who leaned against the island watching him with those perceptive eyes that seemed to peel away the layers Finn had spent years constructing around himself, one protective barrier at a time.
Ollie picked up the mug with a grateful nod. His eyes wandered appreciatively over the organized countertops and warm wood cabinets. Ollie took a slow sip of tea, his gaze meeting Finn’s over the rim of his mug. “I’ve spent more time than I should admit imagining what your private spaces might be like.”
“Have you now?” Finn’s voice dropped lower, the simple question carrying weight in the quiet kitchen.
Ollie set his mug down, fingers fidgeting with his glasses. “That came out wrong. Or maybe exactly right.” His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away. “I’ve thought about you. About this. Being here with you.”
“I’m glad,” Finn said, moving closer until barely a foot separated them. “Because I’ve been thinking about you too. More than I’ve thought about anyone in a very long time.”
