Page 48 of Make Them Cry
Gage is already in the breakroom when I walk in, and of course—of course—he’s holding the mug I always use. The black one with a lightning bolt.
He sees me, smirks, and raises the mug in a silent toast. “Guess what?”
I arch a brow, tugging the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. “You finally learned how to program a basic loop?”
He huffs. “Funny. But no. I’m just celebrating how peaceful things have been lately.”
“Peaceful?” I echo, stepping closer. “So that’s what this is? You being nice?”
He’s wearing a gray tee today, one that fits too well, and his hair is still damp like he showered in a rush. He looks relaxed in a way that makes my skin tighten in awareness.
“Tell you what.” He steps forward, closes the small space between us. “I’ll let you have the first sip.”
That shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just coffee. But when he holds it out, our fingers brush. His gaze drops to where we touch, and mine lifts to his mouth. He watches me take a sip, and it’s suddenly…too much. Too quiet. Too aware.
I clear my throat and break the moment, grabbing a napkin like it’s suddenly the most interesting object on the planet.
All day, I can feel his eyes on me.
Whenever I look up, he’s looking away. Whenever I speak in a meeting, he’s listening too closely. And every time Tasha pops by my desk, his whole body goes weirdly tense. Like he’s monitoring every word she says.
She even jokes about it. “Is it just me, or does Gage have a staring problem?”
I laugh. “He’s probably judging your grammar.”
She grins. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind. I plan on asking him out soon.”
That shouldn’t bother me.
It really, really shouldn’t.
But it does.
I hide it with a smile and act like I’m not internally spiraling. Because the truth is, I’ve been thinking about someone else. Constantly. Every night. Every hour.Mask.
I don't know what he looks like. I don’t know his real name. But I knowhim. His presence. His ability to make me feel safe in a world that hasn’t felt safe in months. I know the way my stomach flips when he says my name. And I know how I dream about him—how my lips burn with the memory of a kiss I haven’t had.
I remember my dreams, and my thoughts turn to Gage.Could it be him? Could he be Mask?
That’s a stupid thought. Gage can’t be him. Gage is too loud. Too cocky. Too…public.
Mask is shadow and silence. He operates in the in-between. He’d never show up to the office in tight shirts and make smirky comments about whose turn it is to do the bug sweep.
Still, I watch Gage like I’m trying to figure out a puzzle. I search for clues in the slant of his jaw, the scruff on his chin, the intensity of his gaze.
Nothing matches.
Nothing fits.
But I can’t stop looking.
After work, the sky’s already fading to dusk as I walk toward the garage. My phone buzzes.
MASK:Come outside. Alone.
MASK:North entrance. Now.
My heart skips.
