Page 138 of Best Served Cold

He shook his head again, still staring out the window.

I glanced at his hand, which was resting on his thigh. I liked his hands. They were big and strong and surprisingly gentle. Artist hands.

Should I?

Fuck it.

Reaching across the console, I threaded our fingers together.

Noah didn’t look at me, but his hand tightened around mine and he made a little whimpering sound.

I held it the entire drive to our building. I understood he probably needed silence right now, I just hoped he could see that I was trying.

I parked his truck in our spot, then went around to his side and waited for him to get out.

It didn’t escape me that he hadn’t brought lunch, or any water with him. The thermal cup of coffee jammed into the cup holder was half full and barely warm.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mumbled as he closed the door behind him. “I’m fine.”

Holding out my hand, I waited to see if he’d take it.

He looked at it like it was a bomb with less than ten seconds left on the countdown clock. “Aren’t you worried about people seeing us?”

“Fuck ’em. But I get it if you are.”

“Fuck ’em.” He slid his hand into mine.

Silently, we made our way into the building and up to our apartment.

“This is exactly what I thought your place would look like,” Noah said as he bent to unlace his work boots.

I glanced around as I did the same.

Our place was a tiny two-bedroom that had once been a large studio. The kitchen and living area was an open space, but so small we didn’t even have anywhere to put a table and chairs. One of the bedrooms was bigger than the other, but that just meant River had a double bed in his room while I had a single in mine.

The building was in a decent enough area, and it was still relatively affordable compared to what else was out there. It was a place to keep our shit and to go to after work, which is all we needed it for.

“How do you mean?” I asked to keep the conversation going.

“I can see where you guys have set up your own little nests.” He smiled and waved to the living area, which was directly in front of us. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, but at least he seemed more relaxed.

I looked at the room from his perspective. He was right.

The left side of the couch was my spot, and leaning against the side table next to it was my guitar case. The right side was River’s, and the table next to it and the coffee table in front were covered with piles of papers, half-used notebooks, and random pens and pencils. The right side of the room was messy and disorganized, and the left was pristine and kind of bare.

“Did you guys share a room growing up?” he asked, kicking off his boot.

“We did.” I waited as he crept farther into the apartment and tentatively looked around. “Right up until we moved into this place and could finally afford two bedrooms.”

“Did you like it?” He paused in front of a bunch of drawings River had spread out over the coffee table, peering at them intently.

“Mostly. There were times when it would have been nice to have my own space, but things are different when you’re a twin.”

“How so?” He swept his gaze around the small room, pausing on my guitar.

“Our parents really leaned into the twin thing. The only thing they didn’t do was give us matching names. Except for our middle names.”

He arched his eyebrow questioningly.

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