Spending time with Elijah outside our apartment meant I could pretend we were something more than roommates. Delusional? Absolutely. But a guy had to have hobbies.
He bumped his shoulder against mine as we walked. “Remember when you tried to convince me that cold weather built character?”
“Still stand by that.”
“You were wearing three sweaters and a blanket cape.”
“Character building is a process.”
His laugh echoed off the brick buildings, warm despite the freezing air. Something fluttered in my chest—stupid, hopeless, completely involuntary. Five years of this, and my heart still hadn’t gotten the memo that Elijah was off-limits.
Three blocks separated us from Brewed Awakening, our usual Sunday spot, though tonight was Wednesday and the city felt different after dark. Streetlights cast golden pools on the sidewalk, their glow catching the falling snow like glitter, and somewhere down the block a car alarm wailed for a few seconds before cutting off with two chirps.
“You’re walking like a penguin.” Elijah glanced down at me.
“Because I’m freezing. Some of us don’t run hot like a space heater.”
“Some of us remembered to wear layers. Besides, I thought the cold built character.”
“I reserve the right to make absolutely no sense.” And my jacket was cute but wildly impractical for winters. Fashion over function had always been my tragic flaw.
Around us, the block hummed with quiet evening activity. A couple walked their dog past a closed bookshop, breath pluming in the cold. Music drifted from a bar two doors down, muffled bass and laughter.
Elijah caught my elbow to steady me on a patch of ice. Warmth spread from the contact point, ridiculous and involuntary. Five years of this, and my body naturally leaned toward him when it shouldn’t.
“Your ears are turning purple,” he observed.
“I did it on purpose to match my shirt. They're fine.”
“They're not fine.” Before I knew what he was doing, Elijah pulled off his earmuffs and settled them over my head. Soft fleece pressed against my frozen ears, still warm from him.
“Now your ears will freeze,” I pointed out.
“I'll survive.” His fingers moved to my scarf, tugging the ends tighter and tucking them into my jacket collar. His fingers brushed my neck, and every nerve ending in my body staged a small rebellion. “There. Better.”
Then he booped my nose with one gloved finger. “Still red, though. Like Rudolph. Cute.”
Cute. Great. Exactly what every twenty-eight-year-old man wanted to hear from the object of his unrequited affection. Might as well have patted me on the head and called me a good boy.
“Does that mean I can play in the reindeer games?” I smiled coyly. “But I refuse to pull a sleigh. Not after all the bullying and ridicule. That would be insulting.”
“The nerve.” His grin was crooked and infuriatingly attractive. Lean muscles shifted beneath his coat as he shoved his hands into his pockets, and those hazel eyes crinkled in the sexiest way.
Being in love with your best friend was hopeless and heartbreaking and highly recommend avoiding it if possible. But I was already too far gone and didn’t that just suck.
Ahead, the coffee shop glowed like a beacon. Warm light spilled through its windows, fogging the glass with condensation. A hand-painted sign reading “Grounds for Discussion” swung gently in the breeze.
Elijah reached the door first and pulled it open, holding it above my head so I could duck under his arm. The move put me close enough to catch his scent. A warm leather and woodsy fragrance I’d long since equated to home. I was so pathetic.
“After you.”
Inside, heat enveloped us immediately. Rich coffee aroma mixed with the sweetness of fresh pastries, with an undertone of old books from the shelves lining the back wall. Exposed brick walls displayed local artwork, and mismatched armchairs clustered around low tables. Jazz played softly from somewhere, competing with the hiss of the espresso machine and the low murmur of conversation.
The whole place felt like a hug, if hugs served excellent lattes.
Michael and Fraser had already claimed our usual corner, a cluster of worn leather chairs near the fireplace. Michael waved us over, his dark beard neatly trimmed and his glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug.
“Look who finally decided to join us,” Fraser said from their table, his red hair catching the light from the Edison bulbs strung overhead. “We ordered without you.”
