"By viscosity this time." His breath catches when my thumb presses against his pulse. "Robin says I have a problem."
"Robin's not wrong."
"Don't take his side." But Devin's smiling, and his hand turns over so his palm is up, inviting more contact. I trace the lines of his palm, life line, heart line, the calluses from the espresso machine.
The food comes. Jason was right. The carbonara is extraordinary. Rich, creamy, the egg perfectly emulsified, the guanciale crisp. Devin makes a sound on the first bite that goes straight through me.
"Oh," he says. "Oh, this is — Silas, this is —"
"I know."
"Jason said it would make me —" He stops. Flushes. "What exactly did Jason say?"
"He said it would make you moan."
"That's — I didn't —"
"You did. It was very quiet. I have good hearing."
"Shifter hearing is cheating."
"Shifter hearing is a feature." I lean closer. "Means I hear everything. Every sound you make."
The implication lands. His eyes darken. "Everything?"
"Everything."
We eat. We talk. Books, always books first, the safe ground. He's finishedPiranesiand wants to talk about the ending, about the nature of memory and identity and what it means to be kind in a world that doesn't reward it. Then wider. Toby's book club, the romance novel debate that's apparently ongoing via text, the illustrated edition ofThe Hobbitthat Margaret let him handle with gloves in the rare books room.
"She let you touch the illustrated Tolkien?"
"With cotton gloves. And supervision. And three separate warnings about the binding."
"Margaret doesn't let just anyone touch the rare books."
"She likes me." He says it with a little wonder, like being liked is still a novelty. "She said I handle books the way they deserve to be handled."
"You do."
"Is that a compliment or an observation?"
"Both."
He smiles. The real one. The full brightness. And under the table, his hand finds my thigh, rests there with intent.
"Silas."
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking about something all week."
"What?"
"You. This. Where it's going." His hand tightens slightly on my thigh. "I want to go there. If you want."
My heart rate doubles. "Define 'there.'"
"Your place. Tonight." He meets my eyes. Clear, certain, no trace of the customer-service mask. "I want to be with you. Not just reading together, not just kissing goodnight. I want —" He drops his voice, leans closer. "I want everything you offered me on that sidewalk before you stopped. Except this time, don't stop."