He snorts but doesn’t miss a beat. Show-off.
We turn, copying the avatars and almost collide. The room smells like Gabe—amberwood and lavender and that soft smell ofhomethat’s embedded into the space, my lungs, my soul.
I glance over at Gabe as he moves. He looks so free right now. A few times during the week when I looked at him, a wave of terror would wash over me. The thought of how differently thatday could have gone, how much I could have lost while I was still in bed and he was out there. Struggling, fighting, hurting.
I'm committed to being the support he needs to make sure that never happens again.
By the time the song ends, there’s no arguing with the results, but I’m going to try.
“Absolutely rigged,” I declare. How did I lose bythatmuch?
He bends over with his hands braced on his knees. “Oh my god! This is like the first time all over again. When did you become such a sore loser?”
I aim to look as affronted as possible, but I can’t help smiling.
“Sore loser? Is that any way to talk to your boyfriend?” The word slips out, and we both stare at each other for a long moment. Then Gabe’s whole face softens, a sweet sort of happiness shining through.
He rolls his lips between his teeth, trying not to smile too wide. When his eyes meet mine, they’re full of adoration, and I’m positive mine are a reflection of the same emotion.
He clears his throat. “No, it’s not. My boyfriend is not a sore loser, he’s just…”
“Just what?” I ask eagerly. Handsome? Sexy? Caring?
His shoulders shake in silent laughter. “Rhythmically challenged.”
My mouth drops open. I mean, it’s true, but still. “Hey!”
“Chronically offbeat?” he tries again.
“Gabriel Shaw. You’re supposed to have my back,” I tell him, but I’m laughing, too.
“I do have your back. I love the energy you bring to dancing,” he says while chuckling, biting his thumb against saying more.
“Okay, out with it. What energy do I bring?” I sigh, knowing I’ll accept any ribbing he gives me if it’s making him feel settled today. Honestly, I’d welcome it any day.
He moves into my space, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Kind of like… one of those inflatable dancing men things car-dealers have.”
I let my head drop back and stare at the ceiling. “Ugh, why is that true?” I groan.
He presses a kiss to my jaw before bringing his mouth to my ear. “Tank. Off.”
I grin at him as I grab the hem of my tank, peeling it over my head in one smooth motion, making a show of it. The air hits my damp skin, cool and charged.
His gaze drags over my chest, the planes of my stomach, the tattoo wrapping around my bicep and shoulder. It lingers on my V-cut as I toss my top onto the couch.
“Like what you see?” I ask lightly, even as my pulse jumps.
“I don’t know,” he replies, voice a touch deeper. “Might have to see more. For scientific purposes.”
“Gotta keep your data up to date,” I murmur, stepping closer. I feel the heat coming off him now, the faint tremor in his breath. “Ready for round two?”
His eyes flick to mine. For a second, I see the tightness he’s been carrying all week, the way his shoulders tense whenever I mention tomorrow, the way his smile has been thinner, stretched over nerves.
I bump my shoulder against his gently. “We can stop if you’re tired,” I say softly.
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. I’m having fun. This is making me feel calmer about tomorrow.” His mouth quirks, mischief peeking out. “Plus, I like beating you.”
“There he is.” I grin, nudging him again. “Alright. Next song. I’m picking this time.”
