Some sports recap show was on that neither of us cared about. He glanced at me when I walked in but didn't say anything. Just took a drink of his beer and went back to pretending the screen held his attention.
I sat in the chair across from him. Far enough away that we weren't sharing space, close enough that leaving would've been obvious. Close enough that I could still see too much. The way his chest rose and fell with each breath. The shine of sweat still drying on his skin. The tattoos I wanted to trace with my fingers.
Stop. Just fucking stop.
“You gonna put a shirt on?” I asked. It came out more aggressive than I meant it to. “Or are you trying to air-dry?”
He looked over at me, one eyebrow raised. “It's my house. I can sit here however I want.”
“Yeah, well. It's distracting.”
“Distracting how?”
“Just distracting.” I took a long drink of beer and tried to sound annoyed instead of affected. “Nobody needs to see that much of you.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile but close. “You could always not look.”
“Hard not to when you're taking up half the room.”
“I'm sitting on one couch. You're the one who chose to sit directly across from me.” He shifted, stretched slightly, and I watched muscles move under skin like it was choreographed just to fuck with me. “But if it bothers you that much, I can grab a shirt.”
“I don't care what you do.”
“Clearly.” He took another drink, eyes never leaving my face. Reading me in that way he always had, seeing too much. “You're the one who brought it up.”
“Because it's weird.”
“What's weird about it? I just got back from the gym. I'm hot. Shirt was soaked through anyway.” He gestured at himself like this was perfectly reasonable. Which it was. Completely reasonable and normal and not at all designed to make me lose my mind.
“Fine. Whatever. Sit there half-naked. See if I care.”
“I will. Thanks for the permission.” There was amusement in his voice now, the bastard. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me and was enjoying it.
I glared at him. He looked back, expression innocent except for the slight curve of his mouth that said he was absolutely fucking with me.
Then he stood up, and I watched him move across the living room toward the kitchen. Watched the muscles in his back shift, watched the way his shorts hung low enough that I could see the top edge of black boxer briefs underneath.
I adjusted myself in my jeans as subtly as possible, grateful he had his back to me.
He returned a minute later with two more beers, handed me one, and sat back down. Still shirtless. Still distracting as hell.
“Thanks,” I said finally. My voice was rough from crying and beer and the effort of not falling apart or getting any harder than I already was.
“Yeah.”
We sat there in the dim light of the TV, not talking, not fighting, just existing in the same space while my brain tried to reconcile the grief still sitting heavy in my chest with the inconvenient fact that I wanted to climb across the space between us and see if Declan tasted as good as he looked.
The silence didn't feel like a weapon anymore.
It felt dangerous in an entirely different way.
Outside, snow kept falling. Chicago kept existing. And somewhere in this city, Rafael knew I was here, knew where I was staying, knew more about me than I'd realized I'd told him.
I'd walked right back into old damage and new danger at once.
And I was too tired and too vulnerable and too fucking hard to care.
FIVE
