Page 41 of Never After Us
He leans enough that I can fully see him under the soft light—jaw strong, eyes focused, curls falling slightly over his forehead.His hand rests on the railing like he’s bracing himself for the apocalypse.
“Listen, what matters is what you said.You mentioned you found a Beatles original,” he says.“Revolver?”
I cock an eyebrow and hold the vinyl against my chest.“Maybe.”
His gaze drops to the record—the look on his face a mix of hunger and reverence, like I’m holding something he’s wanted his entire life.
“Can I ...”He clears his throat.“Can I see it?”
He sounds almost polite.
I hold it out slowly.He steps closer to the barrier between our balconies, reaching out in a way that makes me oddly aware of the space between us—how close we are without actually touching.
He takes the vinyl carefully, like it might crumble in his hands.
His thumb skims the edge of the sleeve, and something softens—no, something loosens—in the set of his shoulders.
“You seem to like music,” I say.
He shoots me a look that could curdle milk.“Sure, let’s say I like it.”He deadpans.
Ariadne snorts over the phone.“Mara, what did you do in your past life to earn this man?”
Alec turns at the sound of her voice bleeding through the phone.“Who is that?”
“My sanity lifeline,” I say.“Best friend and all the fun titles you might want to add.”
He raises an eyebrow.“She sounds loud.”
“She is.And she’s also nosy,” I add, just as Ariadne blurts: “Is he at least cute?Tell me he’s cute.”
I cup the phone.“Ari, shut up.”
Alec smirks—just a little.Barely there.But on him, it does something infuriating.Something unfair.Something I absolutely should not notice.
It curves at one corner, subtle and sinful, like he knows exactly what effect it has and is too amused to hide it.My stomach flips in a way I refuse to acknowledge on any emotional or hormonal plane.
He flips the vinyl over, studying the back cover like he’s reading scripture, brows drawn in concentration that shouldn’t be nearly as compelling as it is.
“Where did you find this?”he asks.
I point at the box.“Apparently, she has a small collection of those.”I shrug.“She had an entire life she never told anyone about.”
He glances up.“People do that sometimes.”
“You have secrets?”I dare to ask.
His mouth curves—barely—but not in amusement.It’s a look that saysYou’re digging,a look that catches me off guard because it carries equal parts challenge and ...understanding.
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not.“Everyone does,” he says, voice dipping low.“Some of us just hide them better.”
Something moves between us then.It’s as if this is the exact moment when two strangers realize they’re not actually strangers.A subtle shift, as if he’s just admitted more than the words themselves reveal—and I’ve stepped closer to the truth without meaning to.
For one breath, it pulls at me, a quiet tug beneath my ribs.It’s just the faint ache of being seen in a place I didn’t expect anyone to look.
I look away quickly, smoothing the edge of the vinyl sleeve, pretending my pulse hasn’t inched higher.“Well,” I say lightly, “I’m very good at finding the things people hide.”
His gaze lingers on me—unreadable, and a little too knowing.
