Robin appears behind the counter. Sees my shirt. Points at me. "I told you."
"You told me to wear it."
"I told you to wear it knowing it would destroy him. There's a difference." He grins. "Have fun tonight. Both of you."
"Goodbye, Robin."
"Be safe! Make good choices! Or bad ones! Whatever makes you happy!"
Devin reappears, jacket on, bag over his shoulder. "Ready."
"Your boss is insane."
"He's the best person I know." Devin takes my hand, casually, easily, like holding hands is something he's been doing his whole life instead of something that started ten days ago. "Where to?"
"Angelo's. The carbonara is apparently going to make you —" I stop. Jason's phrasing. "It's good. Jason recommended it."
"Jason's recommendations haven't let me down yet. That leftover pasta was amazing."
We walk to my bike. I hand him the spare helmet, his helmet, the one that lives on the left handlebar and has never been used by anyone else. He puts it on with the easy familiarity of someone who's ridden with me enough times that the routine is established.
His arms settle around my waist. His chin rests against my shoulder. The warmth of him against my back.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Always," he says.
Angelo's is north of town, past the river. The ride takes fifteen minutes, and Devin uses every one of them. Arms tight, body pressed close, his hands splayed against my stomach in a way that's not innocent. By the time we park, I'm half-hard and trying to think about carburetors.
"You're doing that on purpose," I say when he climbs off.
"Doing what?" Complete innocence. The customer-service face, except weaponized.
"Your hands."
"Were holding on. For safety."
"Your hands were under my shirt."
"Was the shirt in the way? Sorry about that." He's grinning, and I realize with a jolt that this is Devin flirting. Not the shy, accidental version from the first week. The deliberate, confident version that's emerged over the past few days, the one that knows I want him and is starting to enjoy the power of that knowledge.
It's devastating.
Angelo's is small and warm and smells like butter and fresh bread. The hostess leads us to a corner booth, tight, intimate, clearly for couples. Our thighs press together under the table and neither of us makes any effort to create distance.
"Wine?" the waiter asks.
"Just water," Devin says.
"Water's perfect," I agree.
The waiter leaves and I shift slightly, my leg pressing more firmly against his. The heat between us has been building all week, every library morning and café afternoon adding another layer, and tonight it feels like something that can't be contained much longer.
"How was the rest of your shift?" I ask, but my thumb is already finding his wrist under the table, tracing circles over his pulse point.
"Good. Busy. I reorganized the syrups again."
"Again?"