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“That is not a denial.”

Antonio glanced away, then back, and for one brief, terrifying second, Hakeem had the impression he was choosing not to say something. Not because he didn’t have it. Because he did.

“Occupational hazard,” Antonio said at last.

“Reading people?”

“Noticing them.”

The room changed again.

Hakeem hated that he could feel it when that happened now. Hated that Antonio’s attention had become a physical thing. Hated more that the feeling was not entirely one-sided anymore, not if the long pause before the answer meant what Hakeem wanted it to mean, not if the lingering looks meant anything, not if Antonio had, in fact, noticed the same charged almosts Hakeem had been trying and failing to survive.

Alternatively, Antonio could be like this with everyone. Hakeem had no way of knowing. Antonio seemingly never left the house.

Maybe he paid attention with equal intensity to cashiers, neighbors, friends, delivery drivers, women in line at the post office, and the man who sold him limes.

Hakeem had no reliable scale for him yet. That uncertainty was becoming its own form of arousal, which felt unfair and withholding.

He tried again. “You make everything sound like it could be a warning.”

Antonio’s eyes flicked once—quick and unmistakable—to Hakeem’s mouth.

Then back up.

“It isn’t always one,” he said.

Hope arrived so fast it embarrassed him. It was enough to make the next few seconds feel lit from underneath.

Antonio reached for the little dish of radishes at the same moment Hakeem reached for the limes.

Neither of them moved right away.

The pause that followed had a shape to it. A real one. Long enough for Hakeem to feel the held breath on both sides of it. Long enough that letting go started to feel like a decision rather than an accident.

Antonio’s eyes lifted to his, attentive in a way that made Hakeem feel reorganized.

“Sorry,” Antonio said.

It was the least convincing sorry Hakeem had ever heard.

“It’s fine,” Hakeem said, which was also untrue.

They finished dinner in a quiet that no longer felt neutral at all.

When Antonio stood to clear the plates, Hakeem stood too. “I can help.”

Antonio glanced at him. “You can dry.”

Hakeem followed him to the sink, feeling half ridiculous and half dragged by an invisible wire. And maybe a little high.

They worked shoulder to shoulder in the narrow kitchen. Hot water ran over Antonio’s hands, and Hakeem had the quick and silly and obscenely horny thought that he would give anything to be water at that moment. The scent of soap rose into the humid air. Once, while reaching for a bowl on the draining rack, Antonio put a hand briefly at the center of Hakeem’s back to move past him. A guiding touch that caused Hakeem to nearly drop a plate. Antonio’s hand left him at once, but the warmth of it stayed.

“Careful,” Antonio said, gruffly.

That should have sounded ordinary. It did not.

Hakeem set the plate down harder than necessary and grabbed the dish towel. “You keep doing that.”