11. Liam

Iwas getting used to seeing Adam around.

Most days, he showed up around lunchtime since he and Cassandra met for regular morning workouts at some posh gym. It made me aware that my current fitness regime consisted of lugging stuff around the workshop and backyard. Not quite the same.

Maybe it was time to shake off the dust, not only literally but also physically—the trainers I'd used frequently in uni hadn't seen the light of day in far too long. I made time to order a new pair and considered it an investment in both my body and mind, striving for a semblance of balance in the chaos.

The first couple of morning runs were a bit of a slog. After that, it got easier, my body remembering how to do this, and I realised I'd missed it—simply moving, one foot in front of the other, my brain slowing down for once. I tried to apply the same principle to the prototypes—one step after the other, slow and steady. It helped, at least a little.

Adam helped too, enormously so. A few days before our interviews with The Times and The Evening Standard, we found ourselves in the fresh sheen of my office. It boasted sleek furniture and large windows, accessible via a dedicated staircase next to the front door. With daylight spilling across the large desk, we pored over the intricate blueprints sprawled before us to make sure there was enough space for the waste recycling unit. Between the two of us, we'd made great progress, but its size surpassed my original plans.

I hadn't expected George to drop by that day. If I had, I might have made the time to explain how Adam was becoming…something to me. A friend of sorts.

Too late. Because when George ambled in, it was to the sight of Adam and me sitting so close that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. George's arched eyebrow was a work of art.

"Good afternoon," he drawled. "Hope I'm not interrupting?"

"Hey." I straightened and narrowed my eyes at him, a warning that I knew he'd ignore. "Not at all. Adam and I are just discussing a small change to the plans—nothing that affects your work on the park area." Which reminded me…"You've met, right?"

"Loosely." Adam's smile held an edge of caution. "You redid the Hartleys' rose garden, didn't you?"

George levelled him with an unimpressed stare. "I did, yes. Met your fiancée a couple of times in the process."

Ah, damn. I really should have caught George up on things. I'd just been…busy. Or maybe I just didn't quite know how to put it all into words.

"Cassandra is not my fiancée," Adam said calmly. "I know Liam told you we hooked up a couple of times. I don't know whether he also mentioned that I'm gay?"

Surprise flashed across George's face, then his expression eased. "Not in such clear terms."

"Well, I am. Cassandra is well aware, in case you were wondering." Adam raised his chin, voice crisp. "Not that it's any of your business, but neither of us has any plans to marry, or at least not each other."

George nodded. "You're right—it really is none of my business. Thank you for clarifying it anyway."

"And this," I told Adam, "is one of the reasons he's my best friend. How many people do you know who readily admit when they're wrong?"

Adam shot me a small grin. "Neither you nor I, that's for sure."

"I'd like to think we're getting better," I said.

George's eyebrow went back to full-blown arched mode. Time to change the topic before he jumped to incorrect conclusions.

"What brings you here?" I asked him. "Thought we were on for tomorrow."

He dropped into one of my visitor chairs with the dramatic flair of a third-rate stage actor. "Needed to vent about my breakfast date."

"Another bad one?"

A couple of years older than me and an only child, George's parents wanted him to marry a compatible woman. In principle, he was willing, but his requirements were that she had good values, didn't bore him after five minutes, and could genuinely see herself wanting to marry him. A pretty face was a bonus but not mandatory because "looks fade, but character doesn't."

His parents had hired a matchmaker who had yet to grasp that unlike many guys, George meant it.

"She reamed out the waiter for serving her sparkling instead of still water and threw a fit about how her scrambled eggs were soggy. Could have just asked to do them a bit more, but nope." George made the ‘p' pop.

Sounded like his worst nightmare of a potential partner.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Told her to enjoy the rest of her breakfast, apologised to the waiter, paid, and left a generous tip to make up for the experience. Then I walked out."

"Good for you."

"Yeah." He blew out an annoyed breath. "Another one like that, though, and I'm firing the matchmaker. I didn't even get to finish my coffee, for fuck's sake."

"We can fix that." Adam got up and crossed over to the stylish new coffee machine that sat in a corner of my office. According to him, it had been part of the original cost estimate, included in the generic furnishings category. I was pretty sure that was a load of bollocks and he'd simply tired of the instant coffee he'd be drinking otherwise.

George whistled softly. "Swanky."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Except I haven't yet figured out how to use it. When Adam's not here, it turns into a pretty but wholly useless gadget that takes up a lot of space."

"Good thing that space is something you have now." Adam mimed a mocking bow. "You're most welcome."

"I just don't understand," I told him, "how you can't even boil a fucking egg—but you somehow make a perfect cappuccino, wiggly leaf thing and all."

"It's all in the wrist movement," he informed me, straight-faced.

"A lot of solo practice, I take it?" I shot back. And if my mind briefly, for only an instant, painted that scene for me—well, that was my own damn business. Just like it was my own damn business if I noticed, not for the first time, how nicely his jeans hugged his spectacular arse.

Adam let a deliberate smile play around the corners of his mouth. "I'm happy to teach you, you know." A pause. "The wiggly leaf thing, that is. All you have to do is ask."

"Bloody hell." George sounded impressed, and oops, I'd nearly forgotten he was there for a second. "Now I get it."

"Get what?" I asked against my better judgement.

"Laurie's warning that joining you two would be at my own peril." George fanned himself. "All this unresolved sexual tension is making me feel a bit light-headed."

Adam shrugged. "If you can't handle the heat…"

"But it's so very entertaining to sit in the kitchen," George countered while my attention was still stuck on his quip about unresolved sexual tension. Like, okay, I didn't discount it just because Adam and I had exchanged orgasms a couple of times—but it wasn't…It wasn't like that. I didn't fixate on guys. Sure, yeah, Adam had starred in a few hurried shower wanks lately. Just a passing thought or two because I'd been too exhausted to spin elaborate fantasies. But it didn't mean anything. He was hot, and I kind of liked him, and I hadn't made time to hit a club lately, and…

And, fuck.

Maybe it was like that.

I might have zoned out for a moment because somehow, Adam and George had moved on to discussing The Great British Bake-Off. George had long held the theory that some of the contestants hid modest fire abilities that allowed them to fine-tune their results. "I'm not saying they're necessarily aware of it," he told Adam. "Could be they don't even realise it. But just like I know when a hydrangea is suffering from soil that doesn't drain well, they'd know when a soufflé hasn't been exposed to the right temperature for the right amount of time."

"That would imply that I'm a gifted cook," Adam said. "Or baker."

"Maybe you are," I put in. "You simply haven't tried."

"Okay, true." Adam placed a cup of coffee in front of George. "But I can't say I've ever felt particularly drawn to, say, a well-proportioned chocolate cake."

"Maybe you just haven't met the right one yet," George said, deadpan.

Adam gave a regretful shake of his head. "I don't believe in love at first bite. True love needs time, and cake is so very temporary."

"Well." George grinned. "That kind of depends on your discipline."

"Isn't that what the abstinence advocates say?" I threw in. "True love waits. No ring, no fling."

"Because you're such a poster boy for abstinence," George said, his tone fond.

"Hey," I protested. "That was years ago. I'm downright boring now."

"Oh, ouch." Adam followed it up with a cough that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. I shot him a narrow look.

"Present company excluded."

"You say the sweetest things, darling," he chirped, and George, the traitor, guffawed. It made me point an accusing finger at him.

"Anyway, mate, you have no leg to stand on. I'm not the one who stumbled his way into a threesome, after all. How's that for abstinence?"

"That was once."

"Pretty sure I'm the only one in this room who's a poster boy for abstinence," Adam said. While laced with humour, I didn't miss the underlying note of self-deprecation.

"Debatable, based on rumours originating in this very room." George inserted a weighted pause, then chuckled. "Although I guess it depends on your definition of abstinence."

"And on that note," I said loudly, "let's change the topic."

"But why?" George's voice dripped with innocence.

Because I can't think about Adam on his knees right now.

I wasn't crazy enough to say that. Instead, I settled on the tried and true answer of desperate parents and older siblings all around the world. "Because."

"Weak argument," George said. "Zero out of ten."

"Drink your coffee," I told him.

He took a sip, swallowed, and turned to look at Adam with open respect on his face. "This is bloody amazing coffee. You've just become my new favourite person in this room."

"Hey!" I said.

"Second favourite," George amended.

"Thanks. I do try." Adam pursed his lips. "Maybe there's some truth to your theory about how fire magic helps with cooking—coffee counts, right?"

"Coffee definitely counts." George took another mouthful. "Can you teach Liam, please, so he can keep the magic going when you're not around?"

"I honestly don't know if I can," Adam said. "When I tried to show it to him, I believe his exact question was, ‘But why can't I just press a button and then there's coffee?'"

"It's a coffee machine designed for professional baristas," I pointed out. "Not mere mortals like me."

"You're an engineer," Adam told me. "You understand how induction stoves work and design waste recycling units—but a coffee machine scares you?"

"Maybe he doesn't want to learn because he'd rather have you make him coffee?" George asked.

I frowned at him. "Whose side are you on anyway?"

"When in doubt?" He raised his cup. "The person I'm going to ask for a refill in about five minutes."

"Sell-out."

"A man has needs, and Adam seems particularly well-placed to satisfy them. Unless…" George's smile was angelic. "Do you call dibs?"

"Adam is a person." I studiously avoided looking at Adam as I said it. "You can't call dibs on a person."

"You can call dibs on me anytime, baby," Adam said, and somehow, it cut through the knot of strange, heated tension that sat behind my sternum. Because…

"Baby?"

"Yeah." Adam grimaced, eyes dancing with humour. "That sounded a lot better in my head. Like a line from a movie, you know? But turns out it was more like a line from a straight-to-TV, let's-never-mention-this-again type of production."

George laughed, bright and easy. It chased away the last remnants of tension, so I did too, Adam not far behind. With his eyes crinkled up at the corners, he was the prettiest guy I'd ever seen.

Still a bad idea.

* * *

Somehow,I'd invited Adam into my bedroom. But not like that.

It had started simply enough—I'd asked him what I should wear to our two interviews the next day. Which was when he'd decided to review the contents of my wardrobe.

The room was too small for both of us. In addition to his London flat, Adam probably had a whole wing to himself at Harrington Manor, equipped with a free-standing bathtub, gold appliques, and marble pillars or some such. Meanwhile, my bedroom was barely big enough to fit a double bed, a tiny desk, and an old wooden wardrobe that I'd owned since the age of sixteen.

And now Adam was pulling out every shirt, jumper, and T-shirt it contained. His running commentary while sorting my clothes into piles ranged from "nope" to "absolutely not" to "maybe."

"You know…" I stretched out my legs, leaning back against the headboard of my bed. "This might be the gayest thing you've ever done. It's like an episode of Queer Eye for the Queer Guy."

He tossed me a haughty look. "This would be a lot easier if your style didn't veer between two extremes, namely lumberjack and dancing queen." To illustrate, he waved a black, glittery mesh top at me.

Huh. I hadn't worn that in years.

"Eh, it was a phase." I waved a dismissive hand. "I'd say I'm sorry, but it would be a lie."

With a shake of his head, Adam placed it on the ‘absolutely not' pile. It was the largest by far. He pulled another sleeveless top out of my wardrobe, this one a tad less revealing, and inspected it with a frown before he glanced at me. "Can I ask you something?"

I shot him an exaggerated smirk. "Yes, my eyelashes are real."

He chuckled, placing the top on the ‘nope' pile. "Is that an actual question someone asked you?"

"Yep. Pretty sure she was doing some window shopping. Alas"—I moved the top over to the ‘maybe' section—"wrong aisle."

"That's too bad." Adam moved the top back to its previous place. "No, what I meant…When did you know? That you're gay."

Ah. I drew a knee up against my chest and wrapped my arms around it. "Are you asking when I knew or when I accepted it?"

"Both, I guess."

I paused to study Adam for a moment—the practised confidence in his posture was at odds with the uncertain tilt to his mouth. "Around twelve when I kind of knew," I told him. "Took another two years before I really admitted it to myself."

"I was six."

"Six?"

"Yeah." A faint smile sat in the corners of Adam's eyes. "Cassandra and I watched The Princess Bride and we both crushed on Westley."

"Westley?" I repeated blankly.

Adam's smile grew. "Don't judge."

"Oh, I'm judging." I shifted into a cross-legged seat, elbows on my knees, and watched him with open glee. "Honestly. Mini you crushed on a farm boy who's basically a Renaissance fair runaway? Whose most memorable line is ‘As you wish'?"

"Well." The mattress dipped when Adam sat down on the edge of the bed, facing me. "More the pirate version of him, actually."

"Sword play, huh?"

"I was an innocent six-year-old, Liam. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"But I like it here."

Adam chuckled softly, then sobered and glanced away. "Anyway. My mum said I shouldn't tell my dad because as far as he's concerned, little boys should have crushes on princesses, not pirates. So, you know. She meant well, but that was that."

I took in the line of Adam's profile, hesitating for just a second before I reached out to squeeze his elbow. "I'm sorry. Guess it wasn't easy, after that, to admit even just to yourself that you're gay."

"Yeah, it wasn't." Adam exhaled on a long, slow breath. "Took me until I was sixteen. Cassandra and I kissed, mostly because she was trying to prove that I wasn't attracted to her. Let's just say she won that round."

"No spark?" I asked gently.

"None whatsoever." He glanced at my hand on his arm, then up at my face, his eyes shadowed. "I wanted her to be wrong so badly, you know? But she wasn't. It was just…weird. Nothing like, say, the first time we kissed. At that pub."

In the corridor that led to the loos, dim lighting and Adam pressed up against me. My reaction delayed by a momentary flicker of surprise before I'd grabbed his shoulders, and then it had been heat and open mouths, my blood buzzing with a mix of alcohol and Adam. So fucking hot.

"I remember," I said flatly, and in trying to conceal just how well I remembered, I might have overshot and come off as dismissive.

Adam ducked his head, voice subdued. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't come into it with a ton of practice, so…"

I needed a second to make sense of it, mostly because it didn't. Make sense, that was.

Then I started laughing.

"Oh, fuck you." Adam pulled his arm away and made to get up, face averted. I reached for him, caught his belt, and pulled him back down. He crashed on top of my thighs, already struggling to get away again and knocking a few clothes off the bed in the process. I held on.

"Adam. For fuck's sake, I'm not laughing at you."

It took a moment, and then he stopped fighting. His chest rose on a deep breath, eyes still narrowed to thin, distrustful slits as he twisted around to look at me. We hadn't been this close a minute ago.

"Who are you laughing at, then?" he asked tightly.

I pointed a thumb at myself. "This guy."

His brow wrinkled in confusion or maybe disbelief. Christ, he was just about sitting in my lap, wasn't he? But maybe if I didn't draw attention to it and he didn't either, we could pretend it wasn't happening. Right. Solid plan.

"I don't get it," he said, still in that tightly controlled tone.

"You apologised," I told him. "That's…Adam, I wanked off to that memory for months. I mean, more the part in the car, I guess—don't get me wrong, the kissing was nice, yeah? But getting my cock into your mouth was really fucking nice. And I usually skipped the whole aftermath where you kicked me out with my trousers still around my ankles. But, yeah. Months."

He stared at me for several beats, the tension around his mouth slowly melting away. Somewhere else in the house, Jack or Laurie were blasting their usual blend of pop and hip hop, but in the space between Adam and me, it was quiet.

"But," Adam began slowly, a murmur, "you blamed it on the alcohol. It blurs vision and standards, isn't that what you said?"

"Well, yeah." I lifted one shoulder in a miniature shrug. "I was being a prick though, wasn't I? In my defence, so were you."

Faint amusement glinted in Adam's eyes. I was close enough that I spotted flecks of brighter green among the hazel hues, like sunlight in an autumn forest, and Jesus, my mind was tripping headfirst into cliches. This wasn't what I did—I didn't get hung up on guys. My fingers were still loosely hooked around Adam's belt.

"Yeah, maybe I was being a prick," Adam said softly. "But I hated how much I wanted you."

I dragged in a sharp breath, my centre of gravity nudged sideways and towards him. "Past tense?"

His lips parted as his gaze focused on me with dark intensity. "Present tense, too."

Did I move first? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was Adam who leaned closer—a dizzy moment and the room tilting on its axis as I fell back, drawing him down with me, further upsetting the piles of clothes. The floral whiff of freshly laundered sheets blended with his cologne, a warm, woodsy scent that made it hard to think. So I didn't. Tipped up my chin to meet Adam's eyes, breathless as though I'd come right off a sprint.

No space left between us.

I closed my eyes as our lips met in a soft, gentle brush, the contact so light it might have been a figment of my imagination. Adam's weight on top of me was real, though. I parted my thighs to bring him closer. One of his hands curved around my jaw, and then we were kissing, actually kissing, mouths open, coming together and apart and together again. Behind my lids, shadows sparked with gold. When I slid my eyes open just enough to catch a glimpse, the glow around Adam was interspersed with gold as well. Beautiful. Beautiful. I tangled a hand in his hair and lost track of time.

Minutes? Probably. Soft, wet sounds of kissing and the rustle of sheets, distant music somewhere outside the room because the rest of the world still existed. I just didn't care.

Adam's fingertips danced along my cheek and down my throat. A light tug on the collar of my T-shirt, the warm press of his knuckles against the dip between my collarbones. I finally released his belt, but only to ruck up the back of his shirt and flatten my hand against warm skin, tracing the ripples of his spine. Sunlight brushed against the nape of my neck.

Sunlight?

I broke our kiss and reached for the spot. Tendrils of warmth twined around my fingers. I brought my hand back, blinked, and found Adam's magic clinging to my skin like stardust.

"You felt that?" he asked in a whisper, eyes on me.

"Yeah. Holy shit, Adam. That's…" I cleared my throat. "Bloody hot, really."

"Yeah?" His face brightened with a smile, and then warmth touched the insides of my thighs like liquid gold. Jesus. I drew him down for another burning kiss, nudged my tongue into his mouth, flickers of heat touching my throat and chest.

Another minute slid by, my hand in his hair, tangled up together. The sweet press of his thigh between my legs and another brush of sunlight, right there.

"Am I doing it right?" he murmured, and I needed a second to think. Words.

"Yes. Fuck yes." I let my lips skid along his cheekbone. "Not that I've got anyone to compare it to—never been with another mage. Also, most people don't have your kind of control. They'd try anything like this, I'd run."

Adam bent his head, our cheeks pressed together so I could feel as much as hear the low rumble of his voice. "You're not running."

"No."

But I should. The thought faded like smoke.

"You've never been with another mage?" he asked softly.

"No. Had a couple of offers—token gay boy, aren't I? You're not the only mage who's in the closet." I tucked my fingers down the back of his jeans. "But no, thanks—I've got options outside the community, and I'm no one's secret."

Adam stilled against me, and…oh.

Yeah.

"I can't." It was scarcely more than a whisper, his expression cracked open. "You know I can't."

Why?

I didn't ask because I already knew—Gale and their cousins, the legacy that rested squarely on Adam's shoulders. He was trapped in a cage of his family's making, and it wasn't just in his head either. If Adam appeared vulnerable, attention would turn to the others of his generation, allies scattering as the vultures started circling. The Harringtons had been powerful long enough to make enemies, and neither Benedict nor Eleanor Harrington possessed the kind of diplomatic personality that would ease the strain.

"Yeah, I know." I followed the bumps of his spine upwards and splayed my fingers between his shoulder blades. My ribs felt too tight, squeezing down on my lungs even as I tried for a smile. "I get it."

"You do?"

"Yeah." I drew a breath. "But I also meant it when I said I'm no one's secret. Not even yours."

We stared at each other, just a palm's width between us, the seconds twisting through my veins like glacial runoff. I removed my hands from his hair and body, curled them into the sheets instead.

Slowly, Adam nodded. His sigh fluttered like a moth's wings. "I understand."

I wanted him. So much. But I wouldn't get hung up on someone who couldn't offer anything real.

When Adam rolled off me and onto his back, I almost told him to come back—that it was fine, I didn't care, I was happy to sneak around as long as it was with him. I held my tongue. Shifted my hand over just the tiniest bit so it brushed against Adam's, and he slotted our fingers together, knuckle to knuckle. I blinked against the lump in my throat.

Not even yours.

* * *

Adam stayed for dinner.

It wasn't the first time, and I assumed that part of him enjoyed the chaos and noise. Everyone was crowded around the kitchen table, Jack holding a monologue about how blending magic and software could be the next frontier. Laurie and Dad were dissecting the success of The Beatles and whether Jasper Ashton was too old for her, which made Adam pull a face and comment that age aside, Laurie deserved someone who wasn't an utter twat. Meanwhile, my mum and Nan Jean were arguing about holiday plans because Mum wanted to take a train to France and Nan Jean insisted on a ferry to Italy.

I could only imagine how vastly different it was from a dinner at Harrington Manor. The aimless chatter also distracted from the silence between Adam and me. It wasn't strained—I knew he wasn't angry with me, just like I wasn't angry with him. But it felt heavy, weighed down by circumstances beyond our control.

Well. As Nan Jean liked to say: if you think that life is fair, you better get your eyes checked.

After dinner, I walked him to the door and waited while he put his shoes on. He rose with fluid grace that I could never even hope to emulate—unlike me, he'd been groomed as the face of his family since his vocabulary stretched past three words. Me, I was still winging it eighty percent of the time.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said gently, taking a step back. "For the interviews."

"Yeah." He gazed at me for a moment. Then his mouth twisted with something I couldn't name—not a smile, not quite. "Wear the light blue shirt tomorrow, the one on the ‘maybe' pile. It's a classic and it brings out your eyes."

I inhaled. The front area of the house was crammed like usual, shoes and jackets and backpacks tumbling over each other. Yet he was the only thing I could see. "Oldest line in the book, isn't it?"

"True. But in this case, it's also a fact."

I nodded, and for fuck's sake, this wasn't goodbye—it was see you tomorrow, no big deal, but my heart was in a dramatic mood. "I'll wear that, then."

"See that you do." Another second stretched between us. Then Adam reached out to squeeze my hand, smiled, and was gone.

* * *

That wasthe first night I dreamed of losing control. Magic rushed from my body in waves and waves, rolled over London like a tsunami that snapped skyscrapers like matchsticks and crushed entire city blocks like paper houses.

I woke up in a cold sweat, the first light of dawn trickling through the blinds. With sleep pushed to the fringes of my mind, I got up, dressed, and went for a run.

By the time I got back, the dream was no more than a wispy memory.