Page 49 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

Like the room itself is waiting for me to mess up.

For someone to notice the wrong thing at the wrong time.

For everything I've been holding together to crack open right here under the stove light.

Liam could walk in early.

Andrew could finish his run sooner.

Ethan—

The air shifts before I hear anything.

I turn. Ethan stands in the doorway—the man who poured my water without asking, who noticed everything I didn't want noticed. He never misses patterns.

God, of all people. Not him.

My fingers twitch before I catch myself.

The coffee is already made. He doesn't sleep past five—button-down tucked, glasses on, mug in hand. Of course he does.

I miscalculated. That hasn't happened since this started.

His gaze isn't on my face. It's on my hand—not curious, just focused, the look of someone who's already run the data and is waiting on confirmation. He takes a step inside, then another, eyes moving from my hand to my face and staying there, taking in the cracker, the water glass, the hour.

I close my fist.

Too late.

The scent of his coffee reaches me before he speaks. Familiar. Too calm for what's happening under my skin.

His gaze drops to my closed hand, then comes back up. He looks like he's waiting for a confession.

“A vitamin,” I say. Like it means nothing. Like it's just another Tuesday.

The words come out steady. I don't know how.

He doesn't buy it. A beat passes—one of his, longer than other people's, the kind that stretches until breathing feels like work.

“Riley.”

He's too close now. My breath goes shallow.

He's had this stillness about him for weeks—something behind his eyes that says he's been running numbers. Watching patterns. Logging symptoms. Waiting for the last piece. Waiting for proof.

His hand lifts. Slow. Delicate. Like touching me could solve something. Or ruin it.

His jaw clenches—just enough to show. Not anger. Control.

His fingers hover near my wrist, the contact already inevitable.

I should step back. I should laugh this off. Make a joke. Change the subject. Spill the water on purpose if I have to. Do something.

I don't. I can't.

My body stays exactly where it is—frozen in place while my brain scrambles for exits that aren't there.

His fingers close around my wrist. Firm.