But it wasn’t Mr. Gabel who spoke—it was Noah Rider. “What are you doing here?”

Larkin froze.

Doyle answered, polite but with a clear undertone of uncertainty, “I live here.”

Larkin jerked his head in the direction of the door and quickly stood from the table.

Noah hesitantly entered the apartment at Doyle’s offer, his eyes roaming the furniture, the walls, the things that humans accumulate like curious corvids, seeking what he knew, what was familiar, until his gaze came to a stop at Larkin. He’d gone home to change out of his school attire: dark rose chinos, a short-sleeve button-down with a light blue and white daisy pattern—one button appeared to be loose—and white sneakers. He looked so handsome, but then again, Noah was always handsome.

“Noah—” Larkin started.

Noah nodded, like the conversation had already been had and done. “You forgot, right?”

Larkin hastily fumbled his phone free from his pocket and pulled up his calendar of appointments. He scrolled down to the evening hours… it wasn’t there. Skylight Lounge at 6:30 p.m., because Noah wanted to talk. He looked up. “I’m sorry.”

“You left me waiting at the lounge—”

“You called me at work,” Larkin cut in. “I was busy. I didn’t have time to write it down. I’m sorry.”

Noah picked up like Larkin had said nothing. “You left me waiting for nearly two goddamn hours. And when I come looking for you, you’re having dinner with another man.”

“There was no malicious intent. I forgot—”

“I forgot, I forgot, I forgot,” Noah parroted with growing agitation. “You always fucking forget when it comes to me, Everett!”

“Stop!” Larkin shouted. “Stop talking down to me. Stop acting like I do this shit intentionally to get a fucking rise out of you. I have a traumatic brain injury, Noah, and you’ve known that for seven years. You know I have curious workarounds and strange habits and plenty of limitations and I’m doing the best I fucking can. I’m sorry I forgot to write down our dinner plans. I’m sorry I left you there alone. But screaming at me won’t fix the problem!” Larkin’s chest was heaving, his face felt flush.

Noah’s own face was also blotchy, his model good looks replaced by offense and hurt and fury. “Whose apartment is this?”

Larkin narrowed his eyes. “What.”

“You told me, when you moved out, that this was your new address,” Noah said. “You told our lawyers this was your new address.” He gestured wildly, viciously, at Doyle, who’d taken several steps into the living room and remained quiet throughout the verbal assault. “And yet he claims to live here.”

Doyle said suddenly, “It’s my apartment.”

The stare Noah shot Doyle… if looks could kill.