Page 18 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

He straightens, his muscles exhausted from the day’s events. God, he’s tired. He probably reeks, too. Since the sheets are already disgusting thanks to a mixture of come, lube and sand, Toby feels justified in wiping himself off with them.

“Should take a shower.” Since he’s a coward, he makes the statement without looking directly at Mike.

The mattress dips when Mike lies down on his side, still naked. “If you want to shower now” —Mike’s tone is almost indifferent, but there’s an edge to it that Toby can’t read— “feel free. Think we could both use some sleep, mind.”

He’s right. Toby’s limbs feel heavy, his thoughts slow. Stretching out beside Mike is a relief, and while Toby is careful to lie facing away on his side, to not get close in a way that Mike might misunderstand, there’s no denying that the bed is too narrow for two adult men to fit without their bodies coming into contact. That’s what they get for leaving the better room to their charges.

After a heavy second of silence, Mike rolls over. He slides in behind Toby and drapes an arm around his waist.

Something warm and dangerous twists in Toby’s stomach, sharpening its claws. He ignores it as he finally allows himself to relax, Mike’s arm a steady weight that grounds him to the bed, makes him all the more aware of his exhaustion. “Light,” he mumbles.

Rather than reply, Mike leans over to pluck one of the bottles from the floor. He throws it against the light switch, where it bounces off with a plastic thud and plunges the room into darkness. At some point, Toby will have to explain the proper handling of inflammables to Mike.

Not tonight, though.

“Thanks,” he says around a yawn, getting as comfortable as he possibly can in a bed this small. He feels Mike settle back behind him and adjusts to account for Mike’s body, turning his head enough to catch a glimpse of Mike’s profile, shadowed by darkness.

“Hey,” Toby mutters. “You won’t sneak out to catch Number Five while I’m asleep, right?”

“Not that kind of guy.” Mike sounds drowsy and it’s just a throw-away comment, a joke of sorts, but Toby hears it echo in his head. Not that kind of guy. Well, what kind of guy is he?

Toby doesn’t ask. Of course he doesn’t.

III. Chapter Three

T oby wakes up next to a stranger.

Through gaps in the blinds, the morning sun sends bright spots that fall on the bed, one highlighting Mike’s earlobe and the line of his jaw, another tangled in his hair. His face is open in sleep, lashes long and dark against his skin, no worried lines diverting attention from the classic cut of his features.

Jesus, what was Toby thinking?

He tries to leave the bed undetected, but training turns most agents into light sleepers—add the fact that they won’t be safe until they’re out of the country, and there was really never a chance for Toby to slip away. Mike stirs as soon as Toby moves.

On his feet next to the bed, Toby glances back to find Mike watching him with an alert gaze, no trace of sleepiness. He’s gorgeous. Still, or maybe even more so.

Toby makes himself turn away. It’s harder than it should be.

“Going to take a shower,” he says over his shoulder.

He quickly grabs jeans, a T-shirt and clean underwear from his suitcase, but isn’t fast enough to miss Mike’s somewhat sarcastic, “Right. And a good morning to you, too.”

Fuck.

Closing the bathroom door firmly behind himself, Toby leans against it for a moment, trying to regain his balance. You are so stupid. There’s no way this won’t come back later to kick them in the ass. While not explicitly forbidden, the Agency strongly discourages sexual relations between field partners—not out of malice, but because sex is rarely that simple.

Toby’s a professional, though. He’s a goddamn professional, and it was just one night, two people high on hormones and a mission that very nearly failed. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

He checks his appearance in the mirror: messy hair and an angry red mark at the joint of his neck and shoulder are the only obvious traces. The first can be easily fixed with a shower, and his T-shirt will cover up the second. No problem. No problem at all.

After turning the shower on, Toby steps under the sputtering spray. It doesn’t get better even when he lets it run for a minute: like a bad cough, it’s all irregular hiccups mixed with dry intervals, far from the cleansing he needs. He showers quickly and without soap, since Mike must have poured the gel down the drain.

When Toby returns to the room, it reeks of sweat and sex, obvious now that he’s reasonably clean himself. He finds Mike bent over the computer, a pair of boxers riding dangerously low on his hips. Toby blinks and looks away. In passing, he opens the window and flicks off the air conditioning, then goes to check on Paul and Nathan. They’re still asleep, burrowed under the covers in spite of the dry heat that seeps in through the window.

Toby closes the connecting door softly, careful not to wake them, and nods at Mike. “Shower’s free.”

Mike glances over and raises a brow. “That a hint?”

“A friendly invitation.” Too late, Toby realizes what that sounds like and adds, “Not that it’s any of my business. Take a shower, don’t take a shower; I really don’t care. I’ll book you next to Paul for the flight, though, so he might appreciate the courtesy.”

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