Page 105 of Stolen Harmony

“Alright,” Tom announced, leaning back in his chair with the satisfied grin of someone who'd reached the perfect level of drunk. “I'm calling it. Truth or dare time.”

“What are we, sixteen?” I protested, but even I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

“Come on, Elias,” David said, strumming a lazy chord. “When's the last time you did something completely stupid?”

Rowan shifted in his chair, and I caught the glint of mischief in his eyes. “I'm in,” he said, his voice carrying that rough edge that alcohol had only made more pronounced. “But we're all adults here. Let's make it interesting.”

“Define interesting,” Tom said, clearly intrigued.

“No truth,” Rowan said simply. “Only dares. And they have to be things we'll actually remember tomorrow.”

The suggestion hung in the air between us, loaded with possibility and danger in equal measure. I could feel my pulse quickening, though whether from the beer or the predatory way Rowan was looking at me, I couldn't say.

“Jesus,” David muttered. “This is either going to be the best idea we've ever had or the worst.”

“Both,” Tom said with conviction. “Definitely both. I'm in.”

All eyes turned to me. The smart thing would be to call it a night, to send everyone home before we crossed lines that couldn't be uncrossed. But the beer had made me reckless, and the way Rowan's knee kept brushing against mine under the table had my judgment compromised.

“Fine,” I said. “But what happens on this deck stays on this deck.”

“Deal,” they said in unison.

Tom went first. “Rowan, I dare you,” Tom said slowly, clearly savoring the moment, “to give someone at this table a shoulder massage. Your choice who.”

Rowan’s gaze swept the table, lingering on me just long enough to make my heart stutter, before landing on David. “David looks tense,” he said with a wicked little smile.

David rolled his eyes, pretending to groan.

Rowan grinned, already standing, his hands resting on David’s broad shoulders. Up close, David was built like an ex–college linebacker who’d traded sprints for lawn mowing and backyard barbecues—a sturdy chest under a faded flannel shirt, arms thick and tan from weekends spent fixing things around the house. Not exactly ripped, but solid, with a kind of grown-man strength that came from years of living in the real world. His hair was graying at the temples, his jawline softened by a few extra pounds, but there was confidence in the way he held himself. Dad bod, maybe, but a dad bod that could still carry you up a flight of stairs without getting winded.

Rowan’s hands kneaded into David’s traps, strong thumbs tracing circles through the fabric. David started to protest, a joke on his lips, but the words dissolved into a low, involuntary sigh as Rowan found a pressure point. The conversation at the table faltered. Even Tom—perpetually the loudest voice—fell quiet, watching with the same fascinated discomfort I felt humming in my bones.

Rowan was methodical, thumbs working deeper, fingers spreading over muscle and bone. David’s eyelids fluttered. “Jesus, man,” he muttered, “that’s—fuck. That’s actually really good.”

Tom cackled. “If you start moaning, I’m leaving.”

Rowan grinned over David’s head. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. Unless you want it rough.”

That earned a round of laughter, but underneath the noise, something sharper pulsed—a kind of collective, nervous awareness. David shifted in his seat, as if he’d just realized how much attention he was attracting. I couldn’t help noticing the way he arched slightly into Rowan’s touch, or the way his breath deepened, chest rising and falling like the aftermath of a sprint.

Rowan’s hands slid lower, digging into the knots at the base of David’s neck. David’s head fell forward, baring the nape, and for a moment I saw something almost intimate pass between them—a flash of tension that wasn’t quite brotherly. David was straight, sure, but he wasn’t immune to pleasure. When Rowan pressed his thumbs just right, David let out a grunt that sounded suspiciously like relief. And—unless the angle of his hips was a trick of the shadows—he was getting hard. I glanced away, heat creeping up my neck, but not before I caught the tiny, knowing smirk Rowan shot me over David’s shoulder.

It was a performance, but it was also real, and that contradiction made my pulse thrum.

“Alright, alright, enough,” David said finally, shrugging Rowan off with a shaky laugh. “You keep that up, I’ll owe you dinner and a movie.”

Rowan patted him on the back, all innocence. “I’ll send you my calendar.”

The air was shifting—boozy and reckless and charged, like the last few minutes before a thunderstorm. I was half-hoping for an interruption, half-terrified of losing the momentum.

David leaned forward, voice lower, almost conspiratorial. “Alright, Elias. Your turn”

“Alright, hit me.” I said.

A slow, wicked grin spread across David’s face. “I dare you to sit in Rowan’s lap for one minute. No hands.”

Rowan’s brows shot up. “What counts as hands?”