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Paul’s jaw tightens.

“Clint has been letting me stay with him.” Everyone looks at him, then at me. Paul’s real smile comes through for the briefest second. “And he isn’t even charging me rent.”

Something in my chest loosens.

Alby blinks, recalculating, then he laughs too brightly. “Beautiful and generous. My God, Paul, where have you been hiding him?”

“All the usual spaces,” I say.

Mateo snorts into his drink.

Alby waves a bill. “Mateo, sweetheart, fresh rounds? And Clint, help him, would you? Big arms still only come in pairs.”

Paul starts to stand. “I’ll get them.”

I touch his arm. “I got it. Catch up with your friends.”

Mateo takes the bill from Alby and gives me a little sideways smile.

“Come on, friend.”

The bar is three deep with men carrying hints of tequila and sweat.

Mateo slides in like water. I follow like a refrigerator with legs.

“You are not friends with the abuelitos?” he asks.

I laugh under my breath. “I just met them.”

“Lucky you.”

The bartender appears, and Mateo orders in Spanish too fast for me to catch it. He lays Alby’s bill on the bar and makes a face. “Rich guys are so cheap.”

“Maybe they only seem rich.”

Mateo looks over his shoulder at Alby and Brad, then back at me like I’m adorable and stupid.

“No. They are rich. Amazing place. Great food. They’re boring, though.” He nods toward Paul. “Yours is fun?”

I glance back. Paul is listening to Alby with his polite face on. His eyes find me immediately, like he’s been waiting for me to look. “Paul’s a special kind of fun.”

Mateo shrugs. “Good. The boring ones make you old faster.”

The bartender starts setting drinks in front of us.

Mateo leans closer. “They want to be late to the show.”

“Why?”

“Because then they act sad and get half-price tickets.” He rolls his eyes. “Old putas love a discount.”

When we get back, Paul reaches for the drinks before I can hand them out. His fingers brush mine, and I almost let him hold on. I want to, but the whole table is watching in that lazy way that pretends not to watch.

I pull back, and his eyes flicker. More concerned than hurt, I think.

I wish I could explain that it’s not him. It’s the scenario. The way touching becomes a label when men like Alby and Brad are in the room. Taking a hand can turn into proof that somebody has paid for access.

We leave for the theater before the drinks are finished, and thankfully without too much hand games from Brad or commentary from Alby.