⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The distant growl of a motorcycle drags you back to the present.
A black bike turns onto the street minutes later, its headlight sweeping across parked cars before stopping directly in front of you.
Nate kills the engine.
One look at you sitting alone on those steps and every trace of his usual amusement disappears.
He pulls off his helmet.
"Where the fuck is Ethan?"
"Gone."
His dark brows pull together.
"Gone where?"
"If I knew that, Nate, I wouldn't have fucking called you."
His eyes move over the empty street, almost as though Ethan might materialise if he looks hard enough.
"He left you here?"
You look away.
Nate goes very still.
"Jesus fucking Christ."
He doesn't ask anything else.
He simply holds out the spare helmet.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The ride home feels different tonight.
You've been on Nate's motorcycle before, but never alone with him this late.
Never with alcohol warming your veins.
Never while furious with his brother.
Your arms tighten instinctively around Nate's waist as he leans the bike through a turn.
Solid muscle shifts beneath your hands.
You immediately loosen your grip.
A few seconds later, Nate reaches down. His hand closes briefly over yours. Then pulls your arm firmly back around him.
You tell yourself it's for safety.
It probably is.
Still... Your hand stays there and your grip tightens.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The Mercer brothers' house sits at the end of a quiet residential street, dark except for the automatic porch light that flickers on as Nate pulls into the drive.
You've been here hundreds of times.
Tonight, it somehow feels unfamiliar.
Nate unlocks the front door and steps aside to let you enter first.
The familiar scent of the house greets you immediately—clean laundry, faint traces of Nate's cologne and whatever ridiculously expensive coffee the brothers are permanently obsessed with.
It's a modern place.
Open-plan. Masculine without being sterile.
Dark wooden floors run beneath warm recessed lighting. A large charcoal sofa dominates the living room, facing a wall-mounted television and a fireplace Ethan insisted they would use constantly but almost never does.
The kitchen stretches along the opposite wall, all matte-black cabinets, pale stone counters and chrome fixtures.
Two motorcycle helmets sit beside a bowl of keys near the entrance.
Ethan's trainers have been abandoned beneath the stairs.
His jacket isn't there.
Neither is he.
You check your phone again.
Nothing.
Nate notices.
Of course he fucking notices.
He closes the door behind you.
The lock clicks.
"You can take my bed."
You glance up.
"I'm not sleeping in your bed."
Nate walks past you toward the kitchen, pushing the sleeves of his black henley further up his forearms.
Ink disappears beneath the fabric.
"Relax. I'll take the sofa."
"I can sleep in Ethan's room."
He stops at the refrigerator.
For half a second, he says nothing.
Then comes a quiet, humourless laugh.
"Right."
You already know that tone.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Nate."
He opens the fridge.
"I said nothing."
"No. You did that thing."
He looks over his shoulder at you.
"What fucking thing?"
"That sarcastic little 'right'."
His mouth twitches.
"Didn't realise my vocabulary required this much analysis."
"You're being an asshole."
"And you're pissed off."
"At you."
"Sure you are."
He takes out a bottle of water and slides it across the counter toward you.
You don't catch it.
It rolls to a stop between you.
For some reason, that annoys you even more.
"Why do you always do this?"
His expression changes slightly.
"Do what?"
"Act like you know everything about me and Ethan."
Nate leans back against the counter.
His tattooed forearms fold across his chest.
"I know enough."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah."
"Because you hear us argue occasionally?"
His eyes hold yours.
"That's not all I hear."
