Caleb had tucked himself against Sterling’s side, one hand flat on Sterling’s chest, narrating pantry dimensions in the dreamy satisfied tone of a man who had won every argument he’d ever had about counter space and was still extremely pleased about it.
“The shelves are eighteen inches deep,” he was saying. “Organized by category. Dry goods on the left, preserves center, baking supplies right. The flour bins are labeled. All of them. Even the rye, which we don’t use.”
I stretched out across the foot of the bed, boots off somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom, and watched both of them with the specific slightly-unhinged warmth of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted and was still not entirely used to the fact that it was allowed to stay.
Sterling caught me looking. His dark green gaze did the full perimeter sweep—me first, then Caleb, then back to me—and landed with the flatness he deployed when he’d identified a tactical situation he wasn’t prepared for.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the thing again.”
“I don’t have a thing.”
Caleb didn’t pause his pantry narration. “You absolutely have a thing. It’s been documented.”
I sat up. “Who documented it?”
“I did.”
Sterling’s mug stopped halfway to his mouth. “When?”
“Third week. I have notes.”
“You have notes on Mitch’s thing.”
“I have notes on several things.” Caleb took a sip of his coffee. “It’s a very organized system.”
“I want to see the notes,” I said.
“You’re not in the index.”
“I’m definitely in the index.”
“You’re in the appendix.”
Sterling made a sound. Quiet. Involuntary. The kind that came from somewhere behind his sternum when something got through before the armor had time to engage.
Caleb tipped his head back against Sterling’s shoulder and closed his eyes with the satisfied expression of a man who had just landed a joke exactly right and was extremely pleased with both of us for our participation.
Sterling’s arm tightened around Caleb’s shoulders. The movement was automatic—no decision visible, no hesitation, the way he did things now that three months ago would have cost him something measurable. His hand settled against Caleb’s upper arm, warm and certain, and the gesture was so ordinary it almost hurt to watch.
I crawled up the bed. Dropped beside Sterling on his other side, close enough that our shoulders pressed together, and Sterling shifted without comment to make room, the sheet pulling tighter across his lap, which I noticed because I was paying attention and also because I was a man with priorities.
I got my hand on his jaw. Warm through the stubble, the texture of Sterling first thing in the morning, and I kissed him slow. Deliberate. Coffee-warm and unhurried, the kind of kiss that said I had all day.
Sterling kissed back. Fully. One hand coming up to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair with a grip that was firm without being tight, holding me there like he was making sure I was real.
Caleb made a small approving sound against Sterling’s shoulder without opening his eyes, and the coordination of it—three bodies in a bed, two kissing, one approving—short-circuited something in my nervous system that had been holding the line since the first week.
I pulled back. Kept my hand on Sterling’s jaw because I was allowed to now, apparently, and the fact that I was allowed to was still doing things to my chest.
“I am insufferably happy about this,” I said, low.
“I can tell,” Sterling said.
“You’re also happy about it.”
