“You know I don’t understand when you speak French.” I can’t hide the frustration in my voice.
“Sorry. All I’m saying is that I’d rather focus on the restaurant than repairing a broken friendship,” Knox says quietly.
The words sting, mostly because they’re true. We walked a fine line back then. We’re walking a fine line now.
I sigh, the fight draining out of me. “You’re no fun anymore, you know that?”
“I’m plenty of fun,” Knox retorts, a small smirk finally breaking through his stoic façade. “I just channel my fun into creating a Michelin-star worthy menu instead of orgasms.”
“Your loss.” I walk back to the couch and pick up the controller. “Are you going to join me, or are you going to stand there and brood about logistics all night?”
Knox looks at the TV screen, then at the empty seat next to me. He rolls his eyes, but he walks over.
“Move over. You’re hogging the couch.”
I scoot over, making room for him. We sit shoulder to shoulder, the tension from the argument dissipating into the comfortable silence that comes from years of brotherhood. I hand him the second controller.
“I’m going to kick your ass,” Knox warns, powering it on.
“In your dreams, old man. I’m already level twenty.”
“I don’t care about your level. I have superior strategy.”
“Strategy doesn’t help when I have a rocket launcher.”
We load into the game, the electronic music filling the room. We fall into the rhythm easily, calling out targets, covering each other, reviving each other when we go down.
“Merde.Left flank,” Knox barks, his fingers moving with lightning precision.
“I got him. Reload, I’m covering.”
“Watch out for the sniper on the ridge.”
“Got him.”
We play for an hour, two. The talk of women and rules fades away, replaced by the binary world of the game.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Knox actually smile—a genuine, relaxed smile—when he pulls off a particularly tricky maneuver.
This is good, too. This is enough. For now, anyway. But as I watch the digital bodies pile up on the screen, a small part of me wonders if he’s right.
If the danger is real. Or if we’re just hiding behind our fears because we’re terrified of what happens when we finally find something we don’t want to share with anyone else.
I push the thought away and focus on the game.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eli
She takesanother bite of the cinnamon bun, her teeth sinking into the soft, yeasty dough. A smear of white cream cheese glaze catches on the corner of her lip, shining under the kitchen lights.
She looks blissful, her eyes half-closed, a small smile playing on her mouth. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen her since she slammed into my shopping cart.
“You have a bit of…” I reach out without thinking, my thumb brushing the sensitive skin of her lower lip.
The contact is electric. Her entire body stiffens, her breath hitching audibly in the quiet room. The glaze is warm and sticky on my thumb.
I should wipe it off on a napkin. I should pull back.
