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“About books.”

Antonio’s gaze came back to him, slower this time.

“Sure.”

Hakeem aimed for offhand and missed by a mile. “So, you read Toni?”

Antonio was quiet for one second too long.

Then: “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

Antonio tore his tortilla in half with measured fingers. “That’s how reading usually works.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

Something in the way he said it left Hakeem feeling raw and exposed.

Hakeem pushed on anyway. “Layla was reading Mercy House yesterday.”

“I’m guessing you had opinions.”

“That obvious?”

Antonio held his gaze. “Very.”

Hakeem should have found a joke. Instead, he said, “It’s good.”

“I bet.”

The words landed between them with unusual weight, and Hakeem’s pulse gave one hard kick.

“Do you like Toni?” Hakeem asked.

Antonio watched him over the rim of his glass. “You’re very invested in this.”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re invested.”

“How would you know?”

Another pause, but smaller this time.

“Because,” Antonio said, “you get brighter when you’re passionate about something.”

Hakeem took that in. Bright felt observant. Less like a read and more like affection dressed up in neutrality.

Hakeem looked down at his plate just long enough to recover, then back up. “That feels like private information.”

Antonio’s fingers tapped once against his glass. “Maybe.”

“Have you been studying me?”

“I live with you.”