I lift my gaze to his.
He stares down at me, jaw flexing, as if one wrong breath could tip us over. “I need to get to work.”
A door slams in my head. I start to pull back, another instinct I can’t suppress. But Jack…he frees himself from my grasp and sets his hands on my shoulders, bringing his forehead to mine, like he’s done since we were kids when I was too scared to jump from the cliffs into the rock pools.
“Don’t go far today,” he murmurs, a low rumble that prickles my skin. “I’m not done talking about this.”
7JACK
Sol doesn’t go far that day or that night. But my ability to string a cohesive sentence together floats away with the tide.
I blame the eye-shaking episode that had me clinging to him like a fucking child all night.
Know it’s a lie. I can speak behind the bar just fine. Speak to Mal when he comes to tell me he hasn’t slept without a nightmare since his friends were redeployed. To Oscar as he eases his big body around my bulk and drops cash in the till to pay for the iced gin he drinks instead of ale these days—a switch that happened last summer when I wasn’t paying attention.
“You look well, my friend.”
Nice of him to say. Not sure it’s true. But I’ll take it. Because itisnice. Like how Oscar’s hip brushing mine feels good. Feels human, and absolutelynothinglike the kaleidoscope of sensation—of emotion—that detonates in me every time Sol and I touch.
By accident.
With purpose.
Barely at all, and I can’t make sense of it.
I’ve been around men my whole adult life. Naked, sweating, bleeding. I’ve been aroundSolmy whole life, and I’ve never feltanything like I do these days. Like I donow, as we glance up at the same time, lock eyes across the bar, and something hot and bright punches a new rhythm through my pulse.
Wild curly hair. Glittery brown eyes. He’s so fucking beautiful. He’salwaysbeen so fucking beautiful. I know this—Iknowit. So why can’t I find the hinge on this door? The one we’ve swung open to whatever this is?
When did it start?
Where does it end?
Sol breaks my stare, distracted by the band leader of the local folk group singing tonight. Crowdy-crawns and rich harmonies. Sea myths and legends he’s lived by since the day he was born.
I love him.
Christ, of course I do. He’s my best friend. But what about the rest of it?
I’m not done talking about this.
Fuck.
What the hell did I say that for?
I have no idea, and thankfully the Joker is busy enough that I don’t have the head space to try and find one. I pull pints with the singular focus I need to get through the shift. Heft barrels and boxes. Break up a scrap in the car park, a task that comes easier to me than most. Because Irememberhow it feels to fight.
What I don’t remember?
How it feels to fuck. To slide inside a woman’s body and hold her against me until she’s shaking and moaning in my arms. To make her come—and towantto do it. I can’t remember wanting anyone. Anyone but Sol…if that’s what this is.
It’s late when he and Oscar join the folk band. When they sing. Oscar has an earth-deep voice, the kind that makes the wooden beams in the ceiling hum along with him. Sol, though…he sings like candlelight. Rough-cut baritone, warmed by salt and waves, shaped by years of hollering over storms and wind.Made for the old harbour songs he knows so well. Music that hits me in the spine, even though he’s singing about trees tonight instead of the ocean. Melodies that shiver through me as if he’s hooked his fingers into my chest and he’s pulling me closer.
The song is a lament, one Oscar doesn’t know. And so his bass fades out, leaving Sol and the subtle power in his voice, and every fucking hair on my arms stands up. My throat tightens and the room blurs at the edges, but it’s not my brain misfiring—it’s something else. It’severythingelse and I find myself too warm and full of the thing I can’t name.
I need out, but I have nowhere to go. So I keep pulling pints, and Sol keeps singing with his back to me—not looking at me.
Thank Christ.