So reading this now? Full-on delusional.
We should probably check the kitchen gas lines for a possible leak.
Behind me, Thomas moves closer, his chest pressing against my back, his hands settling on my hips.
“Everything okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say, glancing up at him, still dazed. “It’s Logan.”
“Wait—do you need to work today?” Thomas asks, brushing his lips over my temple.
I shake my head. “No, I’m off. But Logan’s being weird.” I shoot him a quick reply.
Me:Did you hit your head?
He reads it immediately, of course, and fires back:
Logan:How dare you?
I snort, but before I can even type a comeback, another message flashes across the screen:
Logan:Did you fuck Thomas?
I lock my phone so fast I’m pretty sure I break a personal—and possibly international—speed record. My face ignites with heat, because I’m about 99% certain Thomas was looking right at my screen when that came through.
I freeze, eyes squeezed shut, praying for a sinkhole.
“Interesting,” Thomas says near my ear, voice dropping. “Did you fuck Thomas?” he repeats, low and dangerous like he’s quoting evidence in court.
“I—I mean—it’s not what you’re thinking,” I stammer.
“And what am I thinking?” he asks, lips brushing that obnoxiously sensitive spot under my ear.
“Jesus, Thomas,” I mutter, nearly dropping my phone.
He laughs, the sound vibrating against my back, then presses a kiss to the nape of my neck. “Did youplanto fuck me?” he murmurs, full of smug amusement.
I spin to face him, cheeks on fire. “Of course not. It’s just—Logan knew you were coming to Jason’s party, and he kept making jokes, and I didn’t actually plan anything, okay?”
Thomas just chuckles. “Relax, I’m messing with you.”
I let out a breath, cheeks still burning. “Sorry,” I mutter. “That was just a dumb joke. I didn’t plan anything.”
“I know,” he says, grinning. “Though the quick-access kit in your car was a little suspicious…”
“Shut up,” I groan, laughing despite myself. I’m going to murder Logan for that text. Slowly. With flair.
I glance up at Thomas, and for a second we just look at each other. And it hits me again—this absurd, impossible thing. Thomas Moore is standing in my brother’s kitchen, gazing at me like I’m something rare. Like he’s in love with me. And somehow, unbelievably, he is.
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine. “Is this normal?” he murmurs. “How easy it is?”
I know exactly what he means. It’s new, sure—but it doesn’t feel new. It feels like something that’s always been there, just waiting to be named.
I nod, our noses brushing. “Yeah. We’ve known each other forever. The only weird part is how much time we wasted.”
“No more wasting time,” he says—and then he kisses me, deep and hungry, like he’s trying to erase all the years we didn’t get to have.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. It’s still him—still the same Thomas I grew up with—but now I get to touch him, taste him, keep him. For real this time.
