He starts talking about the garden behind the store again. I lean against the counter, listening, letting the sound of hisvoice wash over me. My body is exhausted, but my brain feels strangely awake.
When he trails off, looking embarrassed. “You should do it. All of it. People would love it. I can help.” I encourage.
“Maybe,” he says, barely above a whisper, and closes the laptop.
It’s past two when I blink awake, streetlamp light cutting pale stripes across the sage green walls. I lie still, listening.
A floorboard creaks. A cabinet closes. Porcelain taps against the counter—all of it hushed, like he doesn’t want to be heard.
Gabe.
The sounds go on for another minute or two. It doesn’t sound like he’s pacing or moving things around like last time.
He’s just up. Tiptoeing around his own apartment at this hour.
But why? What keeps him awake so often?
The thought twists something in my chest. It seems like an exhausting way to live.
I stare into the dark until the apartment goes silent again, then reach for my phone on the nightstand. My thumb hovers for a second before I set an alarm earlier than usual.
If he’s going to be awake before sunrise, then so am I.
The alarm pulls me out of sleep while it’s still dark. My whole body protests, but I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull on clothes anyway.
I drag myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and by the time I pad into the hallway, I see him. Standing in the kitchen in a long-sleeve top, shorts and running shoes.
He glances up, surprised to see me. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” I say through a yawn, grabbing my sneakers from where I left them by the door. “Figured I’d see if you wanted company on your run?”
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You… want to run with me?”
I nod, trying to make it sound casual. “Why not? I could use the cardio.”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder if he’s going to say no, but then he nods slowly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
I am sure.
We head outside as the sky starts to lighten, the streets still quiet and washed in soft pre-dawn gray. Gabe is already stretching by the front step when I pull my hoodie over my head.
Andfuck me.
Those running shorts hit mid-thigh, showing off legs that are way more toned than I’d realized—long, lean muscle, strong without being bulky. His form is precise as he stretches, every movement is intentional. His thighs flex when he leans forward, calves taut, the hem of his top riding up enough to show a strip of pale skin over the waistband of his shorts.
My mouth goes dry.
I look away fast, focusing on re-lacing my sneakers so I don’t make an idiot of myself, staring. I have to actually think about hockey stats for a second—anything to stop my cock from reacting like I’m a teenager again. Fuck knows it perked up enough around him back in the day.
Okay, and every day since I’ve moved in.
When I cast my eyes back up, he’s straightening, brushing his hair off his forehead, and I’m hit with the subtle strength of him all over again. Gabe isn’t built like me or Aiden—he’s not gym bulked—but there’s a kind of effortless capability to him. A strength you only notice if you’re paying attention.
And Iampaying attention.
He glances at my sneakers, lip quirking. “You don’t run much, do you?”
I look down at my feet, yeah, they’re not running shoes. I raise an eyebrow, grateful for something to focus on that isn’t the way his legs look in those shorts. “I lift heavy things. I avoid treadmills like the plague.”
