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Jude leans against the counter and takes a sip. “Don’t worry about it.”

I nod and let my eyes wander around his kitchen until a picture on his stainless-steel fridge catches my attention.

Him and Damiano as kids. Both of them covered in mud, arms around each other, smiling at the camera.

My throat tightens.

“I...” I shake my head. “I know I’m a mess.”

“Nothing wrong with a mess.”

I look at him. “What?”

He shrugs.

“I took my anger out on you yesterday and threw you out of my house…, and you’re still nice to me. Why?”

“Figured you needed to get some of that anger out.”

“I’m not angry!”

The bastard just lifts a brow.

I open my mouth to argue, then close it because... damn it. I am angry.

I’m fucking furious all the time, and I hate it. I hate how quickly it comes now, how something small can make it feel like my skin is suddenly too tight for everything happening underneath it.

I look down at the coffee warming my hands.

“Why am I so angry?”

The question comes out quieter than I mean it to.

Jude studies me for a moment.

“Why don’t you come with me this evening and maybe you’ll find out?”

I frown. “What?”

“Trust me?”

I study him, this man who barely says anything, yet somehow his green eyes always seem to say more than his words do.

You promised.

Damiano’s words echo through my head.

I look at the picture on the fridge again.

His best friend.

“Okay.”

Jude nods.

I sigh. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

He smirks. “See you at seven.”