Page 60 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“You don’t seem very wounded.”

“I hide it well.” Mike draws closer to watch as Toby arranges his tools on the dinner table, hovering near Toby’s shoulder with the curious air of someone who really wants to put his hands all over things that aren’t his.

“You break it, you buy me a new one,” Toby tells him absently.

Mike hums. “Really, though. Haley and I just want you to be healthy and fit until you’re well into your seventies, and mockery is what we get for it?”

“I don’t mock Haley,” Toby informs him. “Also, I am healthy and fit, thank you very much.” He is—he’s putting work into his body, and even if he maybe cannot quite compete with Mike’s, like, eight-pack or whatever, he sees no reason to be self-conscious.

“Not much longer if you keep up a steady diet of fast food.”

“Oh ye of little faith. Look. Until this” —turning slightly to face Mike, Toby lifts his shirt and points at his stomach— “turns into a beer belly, no one gets to shove salad down my throat. No one. Not Haley, not my mum, not you. Are we clear?”

“Clear.” It’s soft, and when Mike looks up, there’s heat in his eyes, their gazes tangling for a moment.

Mike looks away first. Toby lets go of his shirt, feeling vaguely stupid and unbalanced, like a man jerked fresh out of water who is surprised by the sudden weight of his own body.

“Fine. I’ll see if I can find something that’ll shorten your lifespan by ten years,” Mike says. He leans closer, reaching around Toby to get the wallet from his backpack, and steps back before Toby has time to react.

Good. Toby isn’t supposed to react.

“Fries,” Toby calls after Mike. “Make it extra-large. And don’t forget ketchup and mayonnaise.”

Mike pauses just long enough to smile back over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t dare.” His voice is soft and intimate, as if there’s a whole different layer to his meaning. Once the door has closed behind him, Toby needs several seconds before he remembers how to move.

Jesus. So maybe Mike is still interested.

***

For all that they exist in the same space, they don’t actually see much of each other over the next couple of days. Most of their waking time has them taking turns at reviewing slices of CTS life as seen through the apartment’s window. Mike is also busy tailing employees to a nearby bar while Toby spends hours trying to hack his way into CTS Consulting’s internal surveillance system that would give him eyes inside the building. Their paths cross only long enough for brief updates on their finds.

It’s the slow, painstaking process of gathering pieces of the puzzle and arranging them into a picture that hopefully isn’t too fragmented. Toby minds it less than Mike does.

After three days, they have a rough overview of CTS Consulting’s employees and their respective positions in the food chain. Day four marks a first rough sketch of the security measures they’ll have to bypass, and a day later, Toby’s afternoon shift confirms that Chan Teck Soon’s personal assistant is allowed inside his boss’s office even when said boss is traveling. This turns Mr. Ken Tan into their golden ticket.

Three phone calls later, Toby has arranged for everything they need and goes to wake Mike.

Usually, Mike is a light sleeper. It was one of the things drilled into Toby during training, and it can’t have been much different for Mike—late-night pretend attacks, unannounced wake-up calls that gave recruits precisely thirty seconds to roll out of bed and get right into ten push-ups and another ten sit-ups. Training was a bitch.

Toby was never very good at the whole rise-and-shine thing. Mike, on the other hand, has shown a certain aptitude, but when Toby creaks the bedroom door open, Mike doesn’t stir. Either his training is failing him, or he really was as tired as he looked when Toby pretty much ordered him to get some fucking sleep, man.

Quietly, Toby creeps further into the room. Late sunbeams paint wide stripes across the floor, highlighting the upper half of the bed. Mike looks radiant against the silvery sheet that brings out his tan and the darkness of his lashes. Even after catching up on some rest, he’s got circles under his eyes.

Toby balls his hands into fists to keep from touching.

“Hey,” he murmurs. No reaction, so he repeats it a little more loudly. “Mike. Hey.”

Mike’s eyes open. He blinks once before his gaze clears and he sits up, the sheet falling to his waist, sunshine pouring over him. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Of course he isn’t wearing a shirt because wearing a shirt would decrease the pull of temptation, and Mike is clearly not in the business of making anything easy for Toby.

“What?” Mike asks. “What’s wrong?”

There is no slur to his words, precision in his every move when he throws the covers off and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. Toby takes a step back and thanks God for small favors because at least Mike is wearing boxers. Toby couldn’t have been held responsible otherwise.

He laces his hands behind his back. “Hold your horses—nothing’s wrong.” That’s when his brain decides that now would be a good moment to desert him, because the next thing that comes out of his mouth is: “Do you always sleep shirtless?”

Mike’s brows draw together as his eyes focus on Toby. Then he grins, broad and cocky. “Actually, yeah. I do. Is that a problem?”

“Not a problem. No.” It takes effort for Toby to drag his gaze away from the subtle shadow of Mike’s chest hair, from the swirl of tattoos hugging his bicep, and the dark circles of his nipples. Toby swallows thickly. “Not a problem at all.”

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