I roll my eyes again, making sure he sees. “Because you never disappoint me.”
Something flickers in his expression before he smooths it away. “How are those sessions with the voice coach treating you? Still hearing Dr. Ellis in your nightmares?”
“She made me do that stupid siren exercise for twenty minutes straight,” I say with a groan, “and now my throat feels like I gargled gravel. She kept saying ‘support, Eric, support,’ like I’m a fucking collapsing building.”
He chuckles. “She probably remembers that time we got paired up for a duo and you tried to belt that high G without warming up.”
“It was two years ago!” I argue.
“And you sounded like a cat in a blender.”
I poke his side. “Listen, someone who can’t sing if his life depended on it isn’t allowed to critique. That was one time,andI was sick. And you didn’t help when you laughed so hard you cried.”
Dmitri’s smile turns magnificent. “I’d never seen someone blush so much. Also, don’t forget that you blamedmykeyboard for being out of tune.”
“Itwasout of tune.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” he says as he takes a sip of water, eyes glinting. “You know you love when she pushes you. Makes youfeel aliveor whatever dramatic shit you say when you’re feeling poetic.”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide the grin. “Fine. Maybe. But only because it means I get to complain to you afterward and you pretend to care.”
“Of course I care.” His voice dips into something softer. “You know I do.”
My chest tightens.
I know he does. That’s the problem.
I shift closer without thinking, our shoulders almost touching now. The table’s small, and it’s easy to blame the space for why I’m so near. My knee presses deliberately against his under the table, and he doesn’t move away.
We both startle when the garlic knots arrive. The server sets them down, steaming and glistening with butter and herbs, then drops two sweating, cold beers in front of us. After a quick check-in, she leaves.
I tear a knot in half and hold it out to him. “First bite. Safety test.”
“You know,” he says with a laugh, “at first, I thought you were just being sweet by giving me the first bite, but now I’m hearing that I’m your sacrificial lamb in case they’re poisoned.”
“Age before beauty,” I tease.
“Your birthday is literally only a few weeks after mine,” he argues, then pauses. “Wait. Are you saying you’re prettier than me?”
I laugh and shake the piece of bread at him. “Stop stalling by stating the obvious. I’m hungry!”
Dmitri’s eyes don’t leave mine as he leans forward and takes the bite from my fingers with his teeth. Something low in my belly swoops as I watch his lips close around the bite.
“Verdict?” I ask, my voice suddenly breathy.
“Delicious, though I don’t have an opinion about the poison yet.”
“Well, you’re still alive,” I manage to say, keeping my voice light despite my pulse thudding too loud in my ears. “Though there’s time, I guess, depending on what kind they used.”
He sits back in his seat as he grabs a knot for himself. “Two questions—who arethey, and why are they poisoning you, again?”
The space between us allows me to breathe normally again, and I gesture around the patio. “Well, we don’t know that they’re poisoning me, but one can never be too careful.”
“Noted.” He licks a bit of garlic butter off his thumb, and I have to look away or I’ll do something stupid like stare at his mouth all night.
We relax into our usual comfortable conversation as we eat. We complain about classes, gossip about our mutual friend group, and talk about the little things that always feel so important with him. Banter flows easily, like always, but tonight every tease lands heavier.
I keep finding excuses to touch him. My arm brushes his when I show him something on my phone, my hand rests on the back of his chair, and my fingers graze his shoulder blade when I laugh. Each time, something terrifyingly new and achingly familiar curls low in my gut.
