We’re disassembling one of the old shelves near the front of the store, trying to open up space near the windows. The author event is next week—even if he hasn’t said it out loud, I know he’s stressing—I feel it thrumming in the space between us.
“This’ll open things up a lot,” I say, prying another shelf loose.
Gabe nods, biting his lip as he glances around the room. “Yeah. I want it to be… inviting. Like somewhere people actually want to be.” His fingers tap against his thighs. His hand keeps moving toward his cheek, never making contact, then it drops. He’s been doing it all morning.
“You’re nervous,” I point out gently.
He looks like he might deny it, then deflates. “Yeah. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. I really want to do it, but I keep thinking something’s going to go wrong.”
He said something similar about going to brunch; it’s like he’s constantly on high alert, waiting for the worst to happen.
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.” That hand finally moves up to his face, and he runs his fingers absentmindedly over his scar. My chest aches for him.
“No,” I admit, “but I know you. You care too much to let it fall apart. And I’m here to help.”
That earns me the smallest, reluctant smile before he shakes his head. “Stop being nice. I’m trying to spiral here.” He throws me a mock glare, and it’s so fucking cute, I laugh.
I never realized how much of his personality he kept hidden over the years. Now I’m finally seeing it, and I really like what I see. I’m hoping it’s a sign he feels more comfortable around me. I’ve been living with him for almost a month now, and it feels like home in a way nowhere else has.
“Too bad. I’m not letting you.”
He laughs under his breath, and we go back to work.
He’s wearing faded denim jeans and a Virginia Woolf T-shirt that’s seen better days, the collar stretched from years of wear. He looks beautiful—he would in anything.
It doesn’t hurt that without the cardigan, I can see his biceps as he moves things around, the lean muscle of his arms covered in a dusting of dark hair. He’s so soft, yet so masculine.
His hair keeps flopping into his face as he leans forward, and yet again, I have the stupid, near-painful urge to brush it back for him just to see his eyes.
“So,” I say, mostly to distract myself, “is there anything else you want to do in here?”
“So many things,” he mutters.
“Then we’ll make a plan and get them done.”
He gives me a look—half skeptical, half amused. “It’s that easy, huh?”
“Yep. You want it done, we’ll get it done.”
We grin at each other—his soft and warm—and the moment stretches, comfortable and unhurried. I like that about Gabe. I don’t have to fill every silence.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I like everything about him. I just wish he’d feel the same about me.
The door opens.
A teenage boy stands just inside the threshold—slight frame, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He looks ready to bolt.
“Hi,” Gabe says gently, standing and dusting off his hands. “Take your time. Let me know if you’re looking for anything specific.”
The kid hesitates, eyeing the end of a bookshelf covered in colorful queer romance paperbacks, then walks up to the counter. His voice is small; practically whispering the words, maybe because he doesn’t want me to hear, or maybe he’s nervous saying them. “Um… I’m looking for a book. On… I guess, being okay with who you are?”
“Absolutely. I’ve got a few stories I think you’d like.”
He walks around the counter, doesn’t crowd the kid, but speaks so warmly I can’t help but close my eyes and listen.
“What’s your name?”
