Suddenly, my brain is flipping through questions like a deck of cards—too fast, too loud, too many at once—each one slapping down before I can catch it.
Did he realize who he was dating?
Or where Gabriel lived?
Where wealllived?
Was this some kind of setup?
Was I being played?
Or worse—was Gabriel?
Christ. What am I missing?
Was Noah not as innocent as I assumed?
My pulse spikes hard enough to make my vision wobble. The whole room feels like it’s vibrating.
And then comes the worst question, the one I don’t want but can’t stop.
What the hell are they even doing together?
Boyfriends?
Noah’s slender fingers weave through mine with the polished dexterity of a dancer, snaking around each of my digits as if they belong there. He brushes his thumb over the tattoo on my wrist, and I can’t shake the feeling that he knows exactly what it means.
My breath catches. Something in my chest tightens.
I glance down at our hands.
“Nice to meet you, Alex.”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, then slowly pulls away, letting his fingers trail across my palm—a soft, deliberate drag that, annoyingly, quiets the storm in my head. The static dims. My pulse stutters, thrown off by the sudden calm.
“I see you’ve already started on the drinks.” Elijah’s voice sails into the kitchen before he even appears.
“Barely,” Gabriel grumbles. “Since when did we begin playing hide the bottles?”
Elijah laughs as he steps in, plucking the bourbon from Gabriel’s hands. “Go, take a seat, love. You’re our guest tonight. Let me do the honors.”
He gathers the ice-filled glasses and resumes his pour, then he turns, sliding a glass across the counter with that signature warm smile.
“Welcome to our home. I’m Elijah. You must be?—”
Yeah. Welcome to my world, Elijah.
“I’m Noah,” Noah says, filling the awkward silence with expert timing.
And like the polished businessman he is, Elijah quickly recovers, slipping right back into the comfort of conversation. “Ah, yes. Noah. It’s nice to finally meet you. Gabriel has said wonderful things about you.”
Oh please. I swallow the urge to gag. Or dramatically stick my finger down my throat.
“I’m worried about Alex,” Gabriel says, slicing clean through my internal tantrum.
He moves to my side, one hand rising to knead the back of my neck—the exact spot hoarding every ounce of tension in my body, holding every muscle hostage.
“He’s not well.”
