Page 10 of The Chance

He scoffs and spins, a flush to his face. “Andthat—” He points to my chest as he advances, jabbing me in the pec as he brushes passed me. “Isn’t mine?”

I shrug at the glance he throws over his shoulder. “Probably.”

Snickering when he mumbles something, I follow the drummer back into the living room and flop into what I’ve designated asmy spoton the couch while Mac fiddles with the snack bag.

The movie is restarted as Mac settles crossed-legged on the middle cushion, his bare knee grazing my thigh ever so slightly.

It’s warm, tingles even, and pulls most of my attention.

Weird.

I’m so focused on the contact and scouring my mind forwhyI’m paying any attention to it when this is common for us, that I completely miss Mac’s reach until a pack of candies are smacking me in the chest.

“The fuck?”

Mac snickers and picks up the pack from my lap and slaps it right to my collar bone.

“Iknowthese are yours. Skittles suck.”

“Pffft.” I smack a hand over his, holding him and the candies where they are. “Yousuck. Skittles are the best.”

“I mean …” Mac drags out on a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “One way to find out.”

The glint that flashes is full of mischief and my stomach does that weird clenching thing again.

I clear my throat and drop my grip.

“They’re the best,” I mutter low like a total lame ass and force myself to look away from the things I think I see swirling around in his almost green eyes.

He’s just kidding, like usual.

“Lies,” he mumbles right back and dives back into the snack bag on his other side.

Dragging in a silent breath, I swipe my hands down my thighs and pick up the Skittles pack for something to do.

Instead of watching the movie, I find that my attention keeps wandering, glimpses of Mac catching in my peripheral and searing into my mind like this is somehow different than any other night.

Itfeelsdifferent.

Like the last few months of being stationary with the drummer have altered the rules by which we operate.

Which makes no sense to me.

Mac and I have spent many nights just like this, holed up in tour buses or hotel rooms, with only me to keep him out of trouble. Many hours spent together in green rooms and random car rides. So much time spent within arm’s reach of one another, even at every gay bar he insisted on going to.

Being close is our thing. So close that we have a fanbase. A ship name. And everyone justassumesthings.

Some of it’s true. Most of it isn’t.

Mac’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend, possibly even a best friend like he claims.

I’ll take it.

And yet, as we sit here together watching one of his favorite movies, he seems like he’s in another timeline. Lost somewhere in the space between his ears and not even a bag full of his favorite snacks has made him crack his usual blinding smile.

Does he feel the shift, too?

“Vida,” I mutter, my sight glued to the TV so he doesn’t know I’ve been watching him.

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