What if he didn’t apologize? That seemed more likely. And Nick was supposed to live with that? Sleep in the same house with someone who’d gone from love to hate in less time than it would take him to change clothes?

Nick rubbed at his eyes. He folded his arms across his knees and rested his forehead against them, breathing in the power the air offered.

You’re safe here.

The door slid open. Maybe the air simply reacted to Nick’s emotion, but the atmosphere practically cheered when Adam stepped onto the patio.

Yay, Adam!

Nick couldn’t keep the smile off his face, so he didn’t turn around. He peeked over his shoulder. “Hey.”

Adam dropped onto the concrete beside him, close enough that Nick could feel the warmth from his body—but far enough that they weren’t touching.

“Hey, yourself,” said Adam. “Thanks for starting coffee.” He held out a mug.

Nick took it, wrapping his hands around the ceramic. He suddenly felt shy, but somehow more self-assured at the same time. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yes, you were very loud sitting out here with your feet in the grass. You do realize I have chairs . . . ?”

Nick nodded. “I know.” Adam’s legs stretched out in the grass, too, one hand holding his own mug of coffee, the other resting on his thigh.

Nick hesitated. Then he reached out, threaded their fingers together, and lifted their joined hands to kiss Adam’s knuckles.

Nick’s eyes met Adam’s brown ones. He’d never felt this way before, like he’d found something precious and fragile that could be taken away. It left him giddy and anxious. Fiercely protective.

Adam smiled. “That look is worth waking up alone.”

Nick blushed and looked away. “I’m sorry. I was trying to let you sleep.”

“Sleep is overrated.” Now Adam shifted closer, eliminating any space between them. He pressed his lips to Nick’s neck, abandoning his cup of coffee to stroke his free hand up Nick’s chest.

Nick sighed and closed his eyes. He totally should have stayed in bed.

He left his own mug on the concrete to stroke his hand through Adam’s silky dark hair, tracing a finger down the length of his dusky chin.

“Where are you from?” he asked without thinking.

Adam laughed softly and straightened. He reclaimed his coffee, but he remained sitting just as close. “Annapolis.”

Nick winced and shook his head. “No—I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He hesitated. “My father is from Morocco, and my mother is from Brazil.”

There was a lot of weight in that hesitation, and Nick proceeded carefully. “I’m thinking there’s a story there.”