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Summary
“I’m just tired,” Misha says at last, glancing between them. “I didn’t sleep very well.”
The slight lift of Ilia’s eyebrow doesn’t escape him, and neither does the way Ilia bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
Jun nods. “You having trouble with your neighbors too? I heard Matteo and Donovan were complaining about the noise.”
Misha can’t stop his gaze from flicking to Ilia, and maybe it’s the same for Ilia, because they meet halfway, against their will, and what Ilia’s eyes say is more than what they’ve said in ten months. Say it. Say it. Say it.