Nicholas’s eyes drift over my shoulder to where Wilson is wiping down the back bar. He watches him for a beat, something careful moving through his expression. “Does Wilson know you’re asking?”
And there it is. His first concern isn’t what we’re drinking or when we’ll go. It’s whether Wilson is okay with it. My chest aches at the question, at the gentleness packed into those five words, at the way this enormous Alpha stands in the doorway of a club he could buy twice over and his only concern is whether one Beta is comfortable.
“I’ll talk to him. If he’s not up for it, no pressure. You can grab a drink with me and Lorenzo and head out whenever.”
I watch Nicholas’s gaze flicker back to Wilson. His jaw works behind that easy smile. “I don’t want to make things harder for him, Oliver. Whatever’s going on with Will, the last thing I want is to be the reason he—” He stops, his hand tightening on his jacket. “I’ll stay. But if he needs me to go, I go. No questions.”
“I know.” I squeeze his arm. “Grab the booth near the back. I’ll bring the drinks.”
I know Wilson spots me before I’m within ten feet. He sets down the rag and crosses his arms, the defensive posture he defaults to whenever he senses I’m about to push.
“No.”
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“Your face said it. Whatever you’re about to ask, no.”
“Nicholas is staying for a drink after close. You, me, Lorenzo, Nicholas. Four people in a booth drinking something I’ll absolutely ruin because Lorenzo won’t let me near the good bourbon unsupervised.” I keep my voice as light as possible, hands visible at my sides, posture as unthreatening as I can manage while standing five feet from Wilson, whose walls are already rebuilding. “He asked about you first, by the way. Beforehe said yes. His exact words were ‘Does Wilson know you’re asking?’”
Wilson’s arms tighten across his chest. “That’s… Oliver…”
Fuck, this isn’t working.
“He also said if you need him to go, he goes. No questions.” I lean my hip against the bar. “Wilson, the man’s standing at the door of this club and his only concern is whether you’re okay. That’s not someone who’s going to push.”
Something shifts in Wilson’s face, a crack in the armor that’s gone before I can fully read it. His gaze drifts over my shoulder to the booth where Nicholas has settled, jacket draped across the seat, glasses off as he cleans them on his shirt hem. Without the glasses his face is softer, more open, and Wilson’s eyes linger for a second too long before snapping back to mine.
“One drink.”
“One drink.”
“And if I leave, nobody follows me.”
“Nobody follows you.” I hold up my hands. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“And you’ll never prove that.” I grin. He doesn’t grin back, but the corner of his mouth surrenders to a small lift for a moment.
Later, the four of us end up in the back booth with the house lights dimmed and the sound system off, a bottle of bourbon between us that Lorenzo poured because, as predicted, my Old Fashioned attempt earned praise from Nicholas as “creative” and condemnation from Wilson as “a crime against citrus.”
Lorenzo’s arm stretches across the back of the booth behind me, his body angled toward the center of the table, exuding the relaxed authority of a man on his own turf. Across from us, Wilson sits as far from Nicholas as the booth allows, hands wrapped around his glass. Nicholas claims a careful foot of space between us, cleaned glasses perched back on his nose, bourbon untouched while he talks.
And he talks, something our little end of the evening rendezvous hardly allow. We fuck, we might fall asleep together with me in the middle because Lorenzo and Nicholas share but never each other and then we resume our daily lives. But this version of Nicholas? I like him. A lot.
He’s funny in a way with his dry, self-deprecating, full of jokes so bad they loop back to charming. He recounts a property deal gone sideways, a misidentified load-bearing wall, a client convinced a gazebo was structurally essential, and I actually hear Lorenzo laugh. My beautiful beta who treats laughter like a finite resource he’s conserving for retirementlaughs.
Wilson doesn’t react the same but he’s very obviously listening. His back stays rigid against the booth, glass held in both hands, but his eyes never leave Nicholas’s face. When Nicholas gestures with his left hand, Wilson’s gaze follows. When Nicholas’s voice dips into the softer register he uses for the punchline, Wilson’s grip on his glass loosens by a fraction.
Halfway through the second pour, Nicholas jokes about his glasses fogging up in sewer-grate steam during a site visit, and I watch Wilson’s mouth do the twitch, the almost-smile he smothers before it can fully form.
But this time it holds for a full second of Wilson Ashford’s guard dropping enough that I glimpse the man underneath. Nicholas sees it too; his whole body pivoting toward that almost-smile, his scent deepening in response.
Lorenzo’s fingers brush the back of my neck, signaling that it’s time to wrap up before Wilson reaches his limit.
“I think that might have been the last pour,” Lorenzo says, reaching for the bottle. “Then we lock up.”
Nicholas drains his glass and stands, shrugging on his jacket. He looks down at Wilson, who slides out to just let Nicholas through before sitting back down, still gripping his empty glass. Nicholas’ hand lifts toward Wilson’s shoulder, then stops, pullsback, and redirects to his own collar. The aborted gesture is so careful, so achingly restrained, that I have to look away before my face gives everything away.
