Page 14 of Fallen Stars

Setting my controller aside, I swipe up my phone and turn down the music. “Not like you didn’t know I had it.” I shrug then point at the television.

He leans in my direction and shoves at my shoulder. “Dick.” The word comes out in a playful tone, but hearing it roll off his tongue sends a surge of heat through my veins.

I swallow down a retort and rise from my seat. The last thing I need to do is feed the beast that lives between us. The one that knows what we both want, but neither will move on. I know why I hold back. Why Oliver does is a mystery.

Since the day we met, there’s been this underlying current in the air whenever we exist in the same space. I was unsure how I felt about it in the beginning. But as time ticked by, as the buzz grew undeniable, I accepted it for what it was.

Oliver is my person. My best friend. The one person I trust above all others. The only person I can spill every secret to without fear—not that I’ve sharedeverything. For now, some secrets are still under lock and key. But even those secrets are inching closer to the surface.

Ambling toward the kitchen, I toss over my shoulder, “Hungry?”

His feet pad over the tile in my wake. “I could eat.”

I open the fridge and stare at the sparse contents—water, soda, milk, eggs, bread. But also leftover pizza. I pull out the two boxes from when we grabbed pizza after Oliver’s show two nights ago.

I’d had an appetizer at the pub to hold me over until the set ended. Most nights, I watched Oliver play—whether in his garage or on stage—we typically grabbed a bite after. When the server boxed up our leftovers the other night, Oliver told me to bring them to my place.

We don’t spend every nonworking hour together. But we spend enough time together that he knows his food will still be edible when he wants it.

“As is or heated up?” I turn the oven on and set it to the suggested temperature on the box.

“Heated enough to take the chill off.”

I cover a pan with foil, add the slices, shove them in the oven, and rip the lids off the boxes, tossing them in the recycling bin.Oliver sits on a stool at the kitchen island bar as I return to the fridge and grab us some drinks. I slide him a can of Cherry Coke before I crack open a Pepsi.

“Thanks.” A faint smile curves the corners of his mouth. His eyes lift and meet mine as he pops the top. “Saw Tymber at Poke the Yolk yesterday.” Oliver takes a swig of soda. “He seems… unsettled.” His brows twitch. “Everything okay at work?”

Considering we talk about almost everything, work isn’t off-limits when it comes up. I never mention the fine details or share names—confidentiality and all—but I never shy away from job details.

With the most recent job we took on, the company is being held to a higher level of discretion. Which means I need to be vague with Oliver. My skin crawls at the idea, but it’s not like I have a choice.

I lean forward and rest my forearms on the island across from Oliver. Eyes focused on my drink, I slowly spin the can on the counter.

“Yeah. Tymber’s just stressed.” I take a long pull of my drink. “More clients. Some slightly incompetent employees.”

With a subtle nod, Oliver hums. I expect him to say something—a joke, perhaps—but the room quiets. He simply stares at the can in his hands.

Silence with Oliver is never uncomfortable. But a muted Oliver is rare, as notable and rare as he is.

As the silence stretches on, I steal the occasional glance across the island. Trace the sharp angle of his jaw with my eyes. Visually dance over his olive skin until I reach his lips.

Fuck… I love his lips.

I continue my visual perusal of his features—the bow between his top lip and nose, the soft flare of his nostrils and dramatic slope of his nose. My gaze shifts to the side and I stop breathing when my eyes collide with his.

How long has he been watching me ogle him?

My cheeks heat under the delicious scrutiny of his bold, vivid green irises, but I don’t dare look away. If he wants to call me out, let him. I’d love to hear the words leave his lips. I’d love to hear him ask me if I was checking him out.

Will I confess if he asks? Doubtful. Not because I’m scared of Oliver knowing how I feel about him. More like it’d do neither of us any good for me to share my truth.

My father would rather me fall off the face of the earth than be seen with a “commoner”—his word choice. Add in the fact that the person I am attracted to is a guy and my father is a semi-closeted homophobe… we can all picture how that conversation would go down.

The timer on the oven buzzes and garners my attention. I blink out of my thoughts and grab the pan from the oven. Transferring the pizza to the bottom half of the boxes, I slide Oliver’s food across the counter and then move to take the stool next to him.

We eat in relative silence for the first two slices. Every now and then, Ifeelhis gaze on my profile. His addictive basil-green eyes studying the lines of my face.

I fight off a smile as a subtle buzz floats through the air. There is no way he doesn’t feel the hum. That potent and vital electricity I only feel with him. He must feel it too.

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