I remember the first time I saw Gabe cry, at his grandfather’s funeral. We were teenagers. I’d never seen a man cry outside of a movie before, but Gabe sat there with tears streaming down his face, shoulders drawn in but not hiding. I remember thinking it was beautiful and so brave. This man, who felt things so deeply he couldn’t keep it in, who didn’t care if everyone saw him cry. But now he’s hiding that soft part of himself.
I won’t let him think I’d ever judge him.
I shake my head. “You’re not.”
He glances at me, eyes checking if I’m being honest with him. I hold his gaze and keep my voice level. “You feel things so deeply. I always saw that in you. Even when we were young,” I tell him. “And I think that’s… really lovely. It’s special, not everyone can be in touch with that side of themselves.”
There’s a hint of fear in his eyes, like he’s waiting for me to take the words back and agree with him. He swallows hard, gaze dropping to his hands.
“I think it makes most people uncomfortable,” he says softly.
“Well,” I murmur, leaning slightly closer, “I’m not most people.”
That brings his attention back to me. He blinks, like maybe he misheard me. He swallows again, then his eyes flick to my mouth for a long, suspended second before returning to mine.
“No,” he agrees in a whisper. “You’re Blue.”
Hearing him call me that makes me feel like I'm floating. Nobody has ever given me a nickname before. So it’s not just a name to me. It’s a thread between us. Something that belongs to him alone.
We fall silent again as the credits roll. I turn my hand where it rests between us, and his fingers are right there, curled loosely against his thigh. I slide mine over, slow enough that he can pull away if he wants. I brush my finger over his knuckles. His hand moves, palm finding mine, fingers slotting together.
His palm is warm and a little damp, like he’s been holding back more than just tears.
I give him a gentle squeeze. Just to say, I see you. You’re safe. I want you exactly the way you are.
He exhales, and doesn’t let go.
18
GABE
The gym is quieter than I expected when we arrive. Relief hits me hard, followed immediately by guilt. I shouldn’t be relieved that my brother’s new business is quiet. I hate that I still panic about crowded rooms, hate that it can ruin something as simple as walking into a gym.
Ciarán starts moving toward the other side of the gym. “Where are you going?” I ask him. I can hear the trepidation in my own voice, as if something terrible will happen if he’s on the other side of the room. I know how ridiculous I’m being. I hoped I could come alone, but I feel shaky today.
When I called and asked him to come to Anchor Strength with me, his response was, “Of course.” No questions, never any judgment about the fact that I couldn’t just come alone like a normal person. On days like this, I feel like I don’t deserve him. I’m trying my best to battle the intrusive thought; it’s tough, though.
He and Abbie blew up the group chat this morning, demanding I come to Split Pea for lunch since “I survived Kindle’s Boozy Brunch,” and now they’ve decided I’m a socialcreature. The urge to say no had been strong. But they’re right, I did enjoy brunch. And I want to keep trying. I want to get back out there, even if my stomach churns with anxiety at the thought.
And, selfishly, I’m here to ask Noah and Aiden to come, too. Being surrounded by people I trust makes everything easier.
“I’m going to read the new schedule and check out that mountain of a man trainer,” he calls over his shoulder with a smirk.
I laugh weakly as he strolls toward Zeke.
A few people are scattered around the machines, the steady clink of weights and sound of treadmills filling the air. I head toward the office, then stop dead.
Noah.
He’s at the free weights, standing in front of the mirror with a massive dumbbell in each hand. His tank is loose enough at the sides to flash the curve of his chest and the tight line of his ribs when he moves. His shorts ride low on his hips, a backward cap hiding most of his hair except for the damp curls sticking to the nape of his neck.
I watch as he brings the weight up in a slow, controlled motion. All power and strength. His bicep tightens, forearm flexing, veins pushing against skin slick with sweat. My eyes track a bead of it as it slides from his temple, down his jaw, and disappears into the hollow of his collarbone.
I lick my lips, but my mouth is dry.
I don’t even like muscles. At least, I didn’t think I did. But right now, watching him, my eyes won’t move. Those forearms, the veins lining his hands, when did muscles become so sexy?
And I’m standing here, gaping like some idiot who’s never seen a man work out before. But nobody has ever looked as good as Noah working out, I’m sure of it.
