“I appreciate the offer,” Oliver said, drawing his lower lip into his mouth, eyeing me like I’d sprouted three heads. “But I got it. I’ll just be a moment.”
Watching him disappear up the stairs, I collapsed back onto the couch, dragging my hands down my face with a groan.
By the time Oliver reclaimed his spot beside me on the couch, dressed in fresh sweats, I’d cycled through at least twenty apologies, fifteen half-baked jokes, and one desperate mental plea for a relationship guru to come and direct me, because I needed help.
Before I decided which line to deploy, Oliver said, “So, you want to talk about your day, offload some of the stress? Or isthis one of those classified situations where you could tell me but then you’d have to kill me?”
Well then, we were going to sidestep my bungling of our entire interaction. I couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed, but with Oliver steering the conversation elsewhere, I didn’t feel right yanking the wheel back. “I’m not in the CIA, you know that, right?”
“Mmm, so you claim, but that’s debatable. For starters, if you were in the CIA, you would be honor bound to deny it. Admitting you’re a covert ops intelligence agent kind of defeats the purpose of the whole covert bit. It’s like the first rule of espionage.”
“Alright, I’ll grant you that one,” I said.
“Yes!” he said, pointing at me. “You see? My logic is airtight.”
“Is it?” I drawled. “Then by all means, what’s the next piece of evidence?”
“Your name, it’s basically made for undercover. Luke Skylar Walker. Agent Walker. No way the CIA wouldn’t put a name like that to use.”
“Mm, right. I’m sure the recruitment team combs through birth certificates nationwide, circling the names with the best action-hero potential. Forget skill, training, or psychological screening, what really counts is having that blockbuster-ready name. I mean, obviously that’s how the top intelligence agencies roll.”
“Given how our government agencies run things these days, I wouldn’t put it past them to do something asinine like that.”
“Another valid point. Any other evidence, Sherlock?”
“You work long hours and frequently get called in for cryptic and confidential assignments. You have an endless supply of black shirts. You’re athletic, with more strength and endurance than any civilian should possess. You can charm or defuse a room with unnerving ease, and you probably know seventeenways to disarm a man with a spoon. That’s highly sus. Reads very CIA to me.”
I steepled my fingers in front of my face, trying for my best thinking face. “I get why you’d think that. Everything you listed does sound like prime secret-agent material. But just to set the record straight, I only know twelve spoon-disarming techniques and two of those only work if the spoon’s plastic, not metal. So, sorry to disappoint. I’m just your average, everyday, personal protection officer, not some undercover government operative.”
“Probably for the best,” he said. “Your work matters so much more than espionage. You’re a real hero. I can’t imagine how hard it must be, seeing what you do every day. Especially with everything you carry from your own history. And I know you can’t always talk about it, but I want you to know I’m here. You’ve carried so many of my burdens, I’d like to carry a few of yours if I can. It’s the least I can do.”
“Ollie.” I whispered his name. This time, when my hand reached for his thigh, I moved slowly so he’d see it coming, so he’d have every chance to shift away. He didn’t. He held still, giving me faintest nod. My hand found its place against the side of his thigh, thumb sweeping back and forth. “Having you here to come home to after a long day makes a world of difference. Maybe I’ve done a poor job of showing you how much you’ve impacted me, and for that I’m sorry. Because you have.”
“I thought I was the only one changed for having you in my life.”
“Impossible. You’ve changed everything for me. Knowing you’ll be here, seeing you, sharing this space with you, makes the hardest days better. The dinners you prepare when I work late, the baked goods you surprise me with, the grocery runs you silently started doing so I don’t have to think about them. Even this napkin you took time and effort and thought to fold for me. Those things mean the world to me.”
“You’ve noticed all that?”
“A little hard not to, don’t you think?”
“You might notice things like that, but you sure don’t notice the way people look at you, not when it means something more.” It came out not as an accusation, more like a quiet ache.
“So I’ve been told.”
“You should. You really, really should,” he said, his eyes boring into me, demanding for me to know what he meant. Pleading with me to understand.
For once, I did.
Turning into him, I lifted my free hand and brushed the fall of his bangs back behind his ear, letting my palm rest against his cheek instead of pulling away. “I know I’m clueless when it comes to noticing if someone’s into me. I miss obvious signs like it’s a paid skill. Half the time I can’t tell what’s flirting and what’s just friendly human behavior, and I’m even worse at doing the flirting part myself. But I notice you, Oliver. I’ve always noticed you.”
“May I?” he asked, his fingers brushing my hand.
“Yeah,” I said without hesitation, though I didn’t know what I’d agreed to. The simple truth was that there was no version of this, of him, I wouldn’t make room for.
He guided my hand down from his face to settle over his chest, pressing my palm flat against thethump-thump,thump-thump. “Just here,” he whispered. “I want you to know what you do to it.”
My fingers flexed against his chest. Taking his hand, I moved it over my own heart, which was going just as hard. “Same,” I said. “In case you were wondering.”
