Page 97 of Filled

DANTE

Eli’s apartment looks the way I’d pictured it before I ever crossed the threshold. Clean lines. Sparse furniture. A bookshelf alphabetized. Even the air smells controlled, like cedar and laundered cotton, nothing denoting a life lived messy.

Cruz whistles low beside me, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door like he’s done it a hundred times.

“Damn, Coach. Place looks like a magazine threw up tasteful.”

“Shoes off.”

Eli’s voice comes from the kitchen, dry, and Cruz grins at me before toeing his sneakers off and kicking them against the wall, deliberately crooked.

Dakota’s already in the kitchen, a wine glass in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, leaning against the counter like she’s been here a thousand times. She’s wearing one of Eli’s shirts knotted at her waist, jeans, hair loose. She lifts the glass in greeting.

“You’re early.”

“Cruz drove like he had somewhere to be.”

“I did. Here.”

Cruz crosses the kitchen and presses a kiss to the top of Dakota’s head, then loops an arm around Eli’s shoulders from behind, smacking a kiss to his cheek that makes Eli go rigid before he relaxes into it.

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hey.” Eli’s voice softens. “Wine’s open. Help yourselves.”

I pour two glasses, hand one to Cruz, watch the way Eli’s shoulders sit higher than usual. Not unhappy. Exposed. The careful architecture of his apartment is hosting people who’ve seen him come undone, and I can read the line of his jaw like a fight tape.

I touch his elbow as I move past. “Place looks good.”

Brady arrives twenty minutes later carrying a six-pack and the expression of a man walking to his execution. He hovers at the threshold like crossing it might commit him to something he can’t undo.

“Get in here, Williams.” Cruz throws it over his shoulder from where he’s leaning into the fridge. “You’re letting the cold out.”

Brady steps into the kitchen. Sets the beer on the counter with both hands like it’s an offering.

Dakota crosses to him without hesitation, rises on her toes, kisses him. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He doesn’t look at any of us directly. His eyes track the room instead. The bookshelf. The kitchen tile. Eli’s hands as he uncorks another bottle. My mouth as I sip. Cruz’s forearms as he chops an onion.

Cruz hands me a knife. “Garlic. Mince it fine.”

“Yes, chef,” I reply.

Cruz smirks. “Don’t make me hit you.”

“Promises. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Cruz laughs, low, and his palm finds the small of my back when he reaches past for the olive oil. He lets it rest there a beat longer than necessary, and I see Brady’s knuckles go white on the bottle of beer he’s opening.

Eli moves between everyone like he’s coaching a sparring round. Checking Dakota’s wine. Bumping Cruz’s hip with his own. Asking Brady if he wants something stronger than beer. Brady shakes his head no. His voice still hasn’t shown up to the party.

Dakota plants herself next to Brady at the cutting board, takes the knife gently out of his hand, redirects his grip. “Like this. Curl your fingers.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Breathe.” She touches his forearm. His shoulder. The back of his neck when she leans past to grab the bell pepper.