Page 58 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“I don’t care,” Toby tells him. It’s a lie because of course he cares, just not about the window seat.

Mike nods and settles in his assigned seat, setting himself up for the long flight with the routine of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. One seat and an emotional ocean away, Toby does the same.

It’s entirely unexpected when Mike asks, “First time to Singapore?”

“Um.” Toby squints and waits for the other shoe to drop.

Mike shifts, arranging his long legs into a more comfortable position. “What?”

“Are we on speaking terms again?” Toby tilts his head. “Because that’s great, don’t get me wrong. I just must have missed the memo somehow.”

Mike shrugs, but in spite of the casual gesture he’s watching Toby closely, his eyes unreadable. He’s wearing sweatpants and a faded hoodie for the flight, and still he manages to be the most beautiful man Toby has ever seen.

Until he opens his mouth, and what comes out is, “Had an interesting chat with Liu yesterday.”

Toby’s spine stiffens, but his voice remains steady—all that expensive government training wasn’t entirely wasted on him. “Really? What did he tell you?”

“Why?” Mike’s features are smooth, his gaze unwavering. “You worried about something?”

Vaguely, Toby is aware of Economy Class passengers starting to board the plane, filling up the aisle with their bodies and luggage. A wheelie bag gets stuck between Toby’s seat and the one on the other side of the aisle, and even as the seat jerks when the owner tries to get his bag loose, Toby’s entire concentration is swallowed up by Mike’s calm features. His heart feels a bit tight. If it’s pity that has Mike talking to him again... Well, Toby doesn’t want it.

“Should I be worried?”

“That’s for you to decide.” Mike’s face shows no discernible emotion. “Shouldn’t you know, though? From what I understood, you and Liu are close.”

“We were field partners for quite a while. Doesn’t mean I can predict the strange workings of his mind.”

“Hmm.” Mike shifts again, crossing his legs at the ankle. His thighs fall open and that’s just unfair. Toby’s gaze drops before he snaps it back up to Mike’s face. Whatever hope he harbored that Mike missed the slip dies a quick death when one corner of Mike’s mouth curls, satisfied. “Well,” Mike begins, and the pause that follows is deliberate and cruel. “Mostly, we talked about Hawaii. He thinks you’d like it.”

Whatever Liu told Mike, there would have been enough between the lines to keep an English lit major busy for a year. Fucking Liu and his unsolicited meddling. Toby frowns at a random passenger in the aisle, and the guy blinks at him for a confused moment before he counters with a glare of his own, probably blaming it on Business Class rudeness.

On the bright side, Mike has come out of sphinx mode.

“All right, look.” Toby turns back to face Mike. “I’m sure your home island is very pleasant. But want to hear something unpleasant? Flying.” He makes an all-encompassing gesture at the crowded aisle, the functional design, at the standardized, plastic-wrapped pillows and Economy Class passengers complaining about narrow seats, row after row behind them. “You know that noise of crunching metal when the plane takes off, like it’s about to come apart at the seams? Hate it. The noise, generally speaking—yes, there are noise-cancelling headphones for that, I know. But this? All of this? Is not what I dreamed about as a kid when I wanted to fly.”

By the end of it, there’s a faint smile lingering on Mike’s face. More the trace of a smile, really, but beggars can’t be choosers. “You dreamed about flying?”

“I wanted to be Superman,” Toby amends. “Then I realized just how dorky that cape really was and watched one too many movies with secret agents, which taught me that it means ninety percent hot guys, and in the end, the hero gets the girl, so.” He lowers his voice. “Here I am.”

That’s when he remembers Mike’s soft-spoken explanation about his parents, about how it’s the reason he’s doing what he’s doing. Wow, Toby is kind of an ass.

With a shake of his head, he looks past Mike at the flat expanse of the airfield. “Sorry. Your motivation is rather more noble than mine, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, because it’s a competition.” Mike leans in, his next words quiet. “And revenge doesn’t classify as noble, last time I checked. Anyway, it’s not about why you joined; it’s about how good you are.”

“I’m pretty damn good.” Toby is interrupted by a steward who’s doing the personal Business Class greeting tour; anything you need, just let me know. Tony turns back to Mike as soon as the guy has moved on. “I guess you’re not too bad either.”

“You guess.” Distant humor swings in Mike’s voice, and Toby latches onto it like a drowning man.

“Volatile tendencies and god-awful driving notwithstanding.”

“Are you saying we make a good team?” There’s something searching in Mike’s gaze, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle he’s only just beginning to understand.

It’s a simple question and an equally simple answer, except of course there is nothing simple about it. “We do make a good team,” Toby says slowly.

“Professionally speaking, I assume?” Mike’s gaze doesn’t waver.

The reply takes Toby longer than it should. He’s saved by the plane jerking forward, the steward starting his routine demonstration of safety features and emergency behavior. Even as Toby leans back and pretends to watch, he’s aware of Mike staring at his profile. He doesn’t dare meet Mike’s eyes.

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