Page 118 of The Lies We Play

This is different.

This is Halston.

The door opens.

He stands there in jeans and a dark sweater, hair damp from a recent shower, feet bare on the carpet like he forgot shoes were an option. His face does that thing it does when he sees me—one second of total control, then something private moving behind it before he gets himself in order again.

Fuck.

I missed him.

“Glad you could make it,” he says. “Please come inside.”

His voice is polished.

His hand on the edge of the door is not.

It tightens once, then releases.

I step in, and he moves aside, but not far enough. My shoulder brushes his chest. It’s brief. Fabric against fabric. A nothing contact that doesn't feel like nothing.

Neither of us says anything.

For half a second, I think he is going to offer his hand. For half a second, I think I might take more than that.

Then Halston exhales through his nose, barely, like the choice costs him.

He steps closer and hugs me.

Not hard at first.

Carefully.

Like he is giving me a chance to refuse.

I don’t.

I put an arm around him and feel the shape of him against me, narrower than I am but strong, all restraint and tension and expensive soap. His hand settles between my shoulder blades. My palm finds the back of his sweater.

It has been long enough since I saw him that the hug should be casual.

It is not casual.

His breath changes near my ear.

Mine does too.

Then he pulls back first because one of us has to be decent.

His eyes drop to my mouth for less than a second.

I let him see that I noticed.

He clears his throat, turns, and says, “Your coat.”

“Right.”

I hand it to him. He takes it and hangs it himself in the closet near the door.