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“Looking for something?”

He dropped the paperback and jumped with a hand to his chest.

Antonio was standing at the edge of the living room in an oversized college t-shirt and gray sweatpants because, of course, he had to be wearing gray sweats. The collar of the shirt was loose, and his visible clavicle was doing a lot for Hakeem. He looked tired in a way that somehow made him more attractive, and Hakeem resented this immediately. One hand rested against the doorframe. The other held a glass of water.

“I wasn’t snooping,” Hakeem said immediately.

Antonio’s gaze dropped to the book on the ground.

“No?”

“No.” Hakeem bent down to pick it up and shyly resumed eye contact.

Antonio took another step into the room. “That’s quite a compelling case you’re making.”

Hakeem shut the book, making sure no pages were bent. “I was just⁠—”

“Standing near literature?”

Hakeem stared at him. “I hate how often you say things that sound like you were already in my head before I got there.”

Antonio rarely seemed inclined to give anyone a smile for free. But the corners of his eyes crinkled, and it pulled a hot line of awareness low through Hakeem’s body.

Hakeem held up the paperback slightly. “You annotate novels for fun?”

“Sometimes.”

Antonio stepped closer and reached for the book. Hakeem should have handed it over right away. Instead, there was a stupid half-second where they both had a hand on it at once.

Their fingers made the faintest suggestion of contact. Still, Hakeem felt it everywhere. Antonio looked up from the cover of the book.

The air changed in the smallest possible way, and Hakeem, because his life was apparently a joke with a production budget, became acutely aware of Antonio standing close enough that he could smell soap, water, and whatever clean scent lived naturally at the base of his throat.

Antonio took the book from him and closed it with one hand. “So you like this author.”

It was not a question.

Hakeem folded his arms; leaving them loose felt dangerous. “That’s a leap.”

“You were making a face.”

“What face?”

“The one people make when they see something they have opinions about.”

“This,” Hakeem pointed at himself in an exaggerated motion, “is not a face.”

Antonio set the book on the arm of the couch. “It is on you.”

Hakeem should have lied. The lie was easily available. Instead, he heard himself say, “I’ve read some,” and tried for nonchalant.

“Mm.”

Antonio looked interested. This was new. He leaned one shoulder lightly against the shelf beside him. “Favorite?”

Hakeem gave him a suspicious look. “Why?”

“I’m asking.”