Chapter 24 #2
Okay, this was it. Time to meet Oliver where he’s at, just like Sarah said.
Sharing meals made sense when you lived with someone, basic roommate decency and all that.
But folding napkins into cutesy shapes, that equaled next level, right?
The problem was, I had zero clue what even came close to matching that move. ”
“Dumb, I know,” Oliver added when I didn’t say anything.
Dammit! I wouldn’t blunder this again and let Oliver think his attempts were unwelcome.
“No, it isn’t dumb” I rushed to say. “Not at all. It’s beautiful, Ollie.
And it means more than you know.” My hand toyed with the folds again before I looked back at him.
“Thank you. Truly. You’re going to have to teach me how to do this.
Some napkin flowers perhaps, so I can impress my mom at Thanksgiving. ”
“Um, yeah, I can do that.”
Jesus Christ. Why was flirting so hard? It wasn’t some arcane art or a holy relic locked in a vault.
I watched Ezra and Micah do it all the time.
Logically, I knew the mechanics. But here I went again, flopping like a fish on dry land.
Out of every possible response, I had landed on that one.
Oliver had folded my napkin into an immaculate three-dimensional star, compared me to light in the darkness, and my brilliant contribution?
Imagining how my mother might use his romantic gesture as a party trick.
Stellar execution. I could start an exhibit in world-class flirting.
I needed to course correct. Compliments, now that was safe territory. Can’t screw up a compliment, right? “You make a mean chai, Ollie, thank you.”
Well, that was a . . . choice. If I was going for hetero bro talk, a solid A. God, I was hopeless. No, I was whatever level existed under hopeless. No wonder every attempt at romance I’d ever stumbled into had failed.
A small, shy smile lifted his lips, the kind tinged with enough self-consciousness to make his cheeks color. The kind of look that always left me wanting to get something bigger out of him. “Thanks,” he replied.
Flirtatious words clearly weren’t my forte. Maybe action would serve me better. But what action? How did I shift the language of touch from casual to desire? Ezra and Micah had both recognized my interest, so I must have done something that revealed it. I just had no clue what that something was.
What it came down to was that I did not get the whole “sexual affection” playbook the way others did.
Ez had tried to break it down for me once, how there are these invisible markers people use to show interest. A certain kind of lingering eye contact, the “accidental” brush of fingers, hugs that last half a second longer than strictly necessary.
Friendly touch versus “I’m low-key attempting to get you into my bed. ”
I found it all very confusing. I simply didn’t operate in the “withhold affection unless you want it to be romantic” lane.
To me, a hug was a hug. A hand on my arm was a hand on my arm.
I never understood why affection had these hidden tiers or why people rationed it out like it was only meant for flirting or partners.
If I cared about someone, I was comfortable being physically warm with them, no secret meaning attached.
Pre-Micah era people constantly assumed Ez and I were dating, and I never understood what the hell they were seeing.
To me, we were just two dudes with a healthy, close, safe, affectionate bond.
Yeah, we hugged, had zero weirdness about physical closeness and shared personal things with each other, but it never occurred to me that that alone could look romantic to others.
Which meant if I wanted Oliver to understand I liked him, I’d have to do something that didn’t fall into my usual clueless comfort-zone habits. Something that even I would recognize as flirting.
There was always Ezra’s golden advice to just kiss him already.
I mean, it would get the point across, no misinterpreting that.
But I wanted something between the extremes.
Something elevated enough to show interest and yet .
. . yet not so risky it would be catastrophic to recover from if Oliver didn’t welcome the advance.
Looking downward, my gaze landed on his thigh. Yes! There. I didn’t think I’d touched him there before. I stuck to either his upper body or the lower part of his legs. But a touch to the thigh, that said something else, right? Placing my hand on his upper quad, I gave a faint squeeze.
Oliver’s startled jerk tipped his mug. “Shit!” he yelped, standing as chai sloshed over the rim and across his leg.
Well, that seemed about par for the course for my attempts at displaying interest. I was a sad and sorry peacock strutting around without feathers. I’d never cared, until now. “I’m so sorry, Ollie. Is it hot? Did it burn you?”
“It’s fine. Totally fine. No burns, though I’m not enjoying the dampness, so I’m going to go change.”
“I can help if you want,” I said.
“You . . . you want to help me change?”
“I wouldn’t mind, and besides, it’s my fault your drink is now in your lap, so I should be the one to clean up after my mess, right?”
“I appreciate the offer,” Oliver said, drawing his lower lip into his mouth, eyeing me like I’d sprouted three heads. “But I got it. I’ll just be a moment.”
Watching him disappear up the stairs, I collapsed back onto the couch, dragging my hands down my face with a groan.
By the time Oliver reclaimed his spot beside me on the couch, dressed in fresh sweats, I’d cycled through at least twenty apologies, fifteen half-baked jokes, and one desperate mental plea for a relationship guru to come and direct me, because I needed help.
Before I decided which line to deploy, Oliver said, “So, you want to talk about your day, offload some of the stress? Or is this one of those classified situations where you could tell me but then you’d have to kill me?”
Well then, we were going to sidestep my bungling of our entire interaction. I couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed, but with Oliver steering the conversation elsewhere, I didn’t feel right yanking the wheel back. “I’m not in the CIA, you know that, right?”
“Mmm, so you claim, but that’s debatable. For starters, if you were in the CIA, you would be honor bound to deny it. Admitting you’re a covert ops intelligence agent kind of defeats the purpose of the whole covert bit. It’s like the first rule of espionage.”
“Alright, I’ll grant you that one,” I said.
“Yes!” he said, pointing at me. “You see? My logic is airtight.”
“Is it?” I drawled. “Then by all means, what’s the next piece of evidence?”
“Your name, it’s basically made for undercover. Luke Skylar Walker. Agent Walker. No way the CIA wouldn’t put a name like that to use.”
“Mm, right. I’m sure the recruitment team combs through birth certificates nationwide, circling the names with the best action-hero potential.
Forget skill, training, or psychological screening, what really counts is having that blockbuster-ready name.
I mean, obviously that’s how the top intelligence agencies roll. ”
“Given how our government agencies run things these days, I wouldn’t put it past them to do something asinine like that.”
“Another valid point. Any other evidence, Sherlock?”
“You work long hours and frequently get called in for cryptic and confidential assignments. You have an endless supply of black shirts. You’re athletic, with more strength and endurance than any civilian should possess.
You can charm or defuse a room with unnerving ease, and you probably know seventeen ways to disarm a man with a spoon.
That’s highly sus. Reads very CIA to me. ”
I steepled my fingers in front of my face, trying for my best thinking face.
“I get why you’d think that. Everything you listed does sound like prime secret-agent material.
But just to set the record straight, I only know twelve spoon-disarming techniques and two of those only work if the spoon’s plastic, not metal.
So, sorry to disappoint. I’m just your average, everyday, personal protection officer, not some undercover government operative. ”
“Probably for the best,” he said. “Your work matters so much more than espionage. You’re a real hero.
I can’t imagine how hard it must be, seeing what you do every day.
Especially with everything you carry from your own history.
And I know you can’t always talk about it, but I want you to know I’m here.
You’ve carried so many of my burdens, I’d like to carry a few of yours if I can. It’s the least I can do.”
“Ollie.” I whispered his name. This time, when my hand reached for his thigh, I moved slowly so he’d see it coming, so he’d have every chance to shift away.
He didn’t. He held still, giving me faintest nod.
My hand found its place against the side of his thigh, thumb sweeping back and forth.
“Having you here to come home to after a long day makes a world of difference. Maybe I’ve done a poor job of showing you how much you’ve impacted me, and for that I’m sorry. Because you have.”
“I thought I was the only one changed for having you in my life.”
“Impossible. You’ve changed everything for me.
Knowing you’ll be here, seeing you, sharing this space with you, makes the hardest days better.
The dinners you prepare when I work late, the baked goods you surprise me with, the grocery runs you silently started doing so I don’t have to think about them.
Even this napkin you took time and effort and thought to fold for me. Those things mean the world to me.”
“You’ve noticed all that?”
“A little hard not to, don’t you think?”
“You might notice things like that, but you sure don’t notice the way people look at you, not when it means something more.” It came out not as an accusation, more like a quiet ache.
“So I’ve been told.”
“You should. You really, really should,” he said, his eyes boring into me, demanding for me to know what he meant. Pleading with me to understand.
For once, I did.
Turning into him, I lifted my free hand and brushed the fall of his bangs back behind his ear, letting my palm rest against his cheek instead of pulling away.
“I know I’m clueless when it comes to noticing if someone’s into me.
I miss obvious signs like it’s a paid skill.
Half the time I can’t tell what’s flirting and what’s just friendly human behavior, and I’m even worse at doing the flirting part myself.
But I notice you, Oliver. I’ve always noticed you. ”
“May I?” he asked, his fingers brushing my hand.
“Yeah,” I said without hesitation, though I didn’t know what I’d agreed to. The simple truth was that there was no version of this, of him, I wouldn’t make room for.
He guided my hand down from his face to settle over his chest, pressing my palm flat against the thump-thump, thump-thump. “Just here,” he whispered. “I want you to know what you do to it.”
My fingers flexed against his chest. Taking his hand, I moved it over my own heart, which was going just as hard. “Same,” I said. “In case you were wondering.”
Inching closer, he said, “What if I told you I think about you when I’m alone and it’s safe to feel things I shouldn’t for my straight friend? What if I told you I think about what it might mean to be held by you, not out of comfort or friendship but because you’ve chosen me? Because you want me?”
“I’d tell you it’s recently come to my attention that I might not be quite so straight, and then I’d share that I’ve been doing the same, thinking about you, wanting you, wondering if you want me back.”
“Does that scare you?”
“Only in the way unexplored things sometimes do,” I whispered.
His eyes scanned my face with an intensity that had my thoughts scattering and my nerves skittering. He leaned close, so close we shared breath, the invisible warm stream of his exhales hitting my lips. “What if I kissed you right now, would you stop me?” he asked.
“No. In fact, I’d kiss you back.”