Gabe hesitates, then shifts back like he’s not sure about the handshake. My chest pulls tight. Before I can say anything, he moves just close enough behind me that I can feel him there—almost touching, like he’s trusting me to be his shield.
It twists something in me. I love that he trusts me enough to feel protected standing here, but I hate that something as simple as a handshake puts that look in his eyes. I want to turn and tell him it’s fine, that he doesn’t have to shake a single hand if he doesn’t want to—that I won’t let anyone touch him, not even me. But I just stand there, hoping Theo is understanding.
If Theo notices, he doesn’t let on. He just lets his hand drop casually and nods toward the shelves instead. “The event was great. Love your store.”
It’s enough to make Gabe’s mouth morph into a small, surprised smile. The compliment makes him blush. “Um, thank you. It’s nice to meet you.”
The last guests filter out with goodbyes. Abbie stacks the last chair, and Ciarán waves from the door where Theo is standing behind him, giving us a nod. Aiden left earlier to get Rose to bed.
“Night, you two,” Abbie calls over her shoulder to us, walking toward the others. “And Gabe? You were brilliant tonight.”
Gabe ducks his head, embarrassed but smiling.
After they’re gone, it’s just us. We work side by side, straightening tables and putting things back where they belong. Gabe’s moving slower now, like the high of the evening is wearing off, and fatigue is setting in.
“All good?” I ask when I catch him pausing in the middle of the room, just… looking around.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I’m good. Better than, actually. That was… a lot for me. But I’m happy I did it.”
“You did a great job speaking. I like seeing you happy.” Understatement of the year.
The words feel too close to a confession, so I clear my throat and put the last few bits away.
We lock up together, the deadbolt clicking loudly in the stillness. Upstairs, I tell him to sit on the sofa, and he doesn’t argue, just sinks into the couch. Tiredness lines his face; the event really took it out of him.
I make him tea and join him on the sofa. He’s sitting closer to the middle than usual, and our knees are close, not quite touching. I’m suddenly aware of how much space my body takes up on this couch.
And then Gabe’s pinkie brushes mine.
It’s the lightest touch—I think it’s an accident—but it lingers.
My pulse skyrockets. I stay perfectly still, staring in awe.
Slowly, deliberately, Gabe slides his hand over until his fingers find mine. Then he laces them together so carefully it makes my stomach swoop. His hand is warm, skin soft. His fingers fit so perfectly between mine, like they were made for each other. Two halves of a whole.
My breath catches as I study our interlocked fingers. My first thought is, don’t move. Don’t fuck this moment up.
The second thought is gut-punching—he chose this. He chose me.
He tilts sideways, and his head lands softly on my shoulder. “Is this okay?” His words are no more than air.
“More than okay.”
I squeeze his hand once.
Inside, I’m a mess. Hope relentlessly tries to gain purchase. I want to pull him into me, tell him how proud I am, how badly I want to keep earning moments like this—but I stay still. Let him hold my hand and lean on me for as long as he needs.
If this is all he can give me, I’ll take it.
15
NOAH
I should be asleep.
I’m on my back with the blanket twisted around my legs, thumb pressed to the warm spot on my palm where his hand was. If I close my eyes, I can still feel his fingers sliding between mine, the quiet certainty of it. Not an accident. A choice.
I groan into the room. It’s just a hand, not a life-altering event. I need to calm the fuck down. I’m having an existential crisis over hand-holding right now.
