Page 48 of Off Script

“You seemed friendly.”

Liam chuckled under his breath. “You’re really not subtle when you’re pissed.”

“I’m not pissed.”

“Sure.” His grin softened. “You’re Zen as fuck right now.”

Jacob didn’t answer. He kept his gaze locked on the fire, willing it to burn the tension out of him.

Liam’s voice dipped quieter. “No, he’s not my type.”

Jacob didn’t look at him, but something in his chest loosened.

Liam let out a long breath. “I’ve never been into guys. Always liked women. Their curves and softness.” He shrugged faintly. “Still do.”

Jacob gave the smallest nod, not enough to mean anything.

“But then there’s you,” he went on. “And none of that seems to matter.”

Jacob turned to him, jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?” Liam challenged.

“Because I don’t know what to do with it.”

Liam looked away. “Yeah. Neither do I.”

The fire snapped loudly between them.

Liam’s eyes dropped to Jacob’s empty bottle. Without a word, he offered his own, still cold from the ice chest. Jacob hesitated, then took it. Their fingers brushed in a way that felt anything but accidental.

He drank from the same spot Liam’s mouth had touched, too aware of the heat it had left behind. When he handed it back, their hands lingered long enough to matter. Liam’s eyes stayed on him as he lifted the bottle, lips closing around the glass like a dare. They passed it back and forth until it ran dry.

Somewhere in that quiet exchange their knees found each other and stayed, neither of them retreating. Then casually—so casually it felt deliberate—Liam placed his hand down on the bench beside him, right where Jacob’s already was. Their pinkies touching, skin to skin.

Jacob didn’t pull away as Liam’s pinky slid against his in a slow drag. So soft it was barely there, testing the current between them.

Jacob breathed through it, heart slamming against his ribs.

Their fingers touched again and tangled; a fragile knot holding them together. Jacob turned his hand, his knuckles grazing the back of Liam’s hand, as if he were measuring how much he could get away with.

Liam went still, but he didn’t withdraw. His breath caught, soft and almost soundless. Jacob felt the tremor run throughhim like it belonged to them both. Slowly, Liam turned his hand over, palm open, quiet in its offering.

Jacob didn’t pause. He traced the lines of that hand with aching care, fingertips gliding along skin that trembled under his touch.

A sound slipped from Liam’s throat, something unguarded he couldn’t hold back. His knee pressed harder against Jacob’s as his eyes fixed on Jacob’s hand, following every movement like it mattered more than anything.

Their hands kept searching, brushing, retreating, only to return again. Not quite holding on, not quite letting go. It was more than touch—it was a confession, a conversation in a language Jacob hadn’t known he could speak until now. One written in silence and skin.

How could something so simple feel so devastatingly intimate?

He’d done plenty of reckless things in his life, but this—this quiet communion, this dangerous softness—was more powerful than any of them had ever been.

They stayed like that: hidden in plain sight, hands moving soft as whispers, telling secrets no one else would ever hear.

For one suspended moment, Jacob allowed himself to keep it.

Chapter 23