“Yeah,” Dom lied, taking a seat.
“That’s not like you,” Alec piped up. “You’re always early.”
Sinclair glanced toward Dom, his nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling a little more deeply. Whether it was adrenaline or he was sniffing at Dom, Dom didn’t want to know.
He could feel the heat pouring off Sinclair, though. Maybe he was sitting far too close to that man. So he pulled his chair away, turning to order his drink.
His knee bumped into Sinclair’s thigh; the man tensed. Dom yanked his leg away, so there wasn’t a point of contact between them. It’s just a bump, he told himself. But Sinclair’s thigh had been solid, muscular. Taunting.
“So, was it an accident that held you up?” Gareth asked.
Dom bit his tongue. Gareth knew exactly how Dom felt about their new recruit. “Yeah.”
“Something like a toothpaste accident?” Gareth’s smile sharpened.
Damn that man. Like Dom needed a reminder of that day. Across the table, Gareth met Dom’s gaze, his expression knowing.
Sinclair’s ears turned pink. The rest of his face, too. It shouldn’t look that good on him. It shouldn’t make Dom twice as aware of that cinnamon scent.
“Fuck off,” Dom muttered. “You were talking about investments. Get back to it.”
Gareth grinned. “Yes, sir.”
As though he would give Dom any dignity, now that they were off-duty.
The waiter stopped by the table with Dom’s usual—a whiskey sour, complete with a slice of lemon skewered around a maraschino cherry. Sinclair’s gaze locked onto it, following the drink as Dom lifted it to his lips.
Dom took a sip. The lemon tartness rushed over his tongue first, followed by whiskey and a faint sweetness. Then it all burned down his throat.
Whiskey sours hadn’t always been Dom’s usual. They’d been Mal’s. Dom had begun drinking them after his death, just to trick himself into feeling as though Mal was still around. These days, the need had mellowed out into a habit.
Sinclair was still staring when Dom set the glass down. “Problem?” Dom asked.
The man narrowed his eyes. “Just seems like a drink an omega would order. That’s all.”
Alec snorted. Nate smiled. Gareth raised an eyebrow—he was the only one who knew. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut.
“You mean the cherry?” Dom asked, casually picking the knotted bamboo skewer out of his drink. He wasn’t going to acknowledge the ache that question wrought in his chest. He wasn’t giving Sinclair that kind of power over him.
Instead, he bit into the lemon slice, dragging it to the end of the skewer. There, he freed one side of the slice. Sinclair was watching him openly now. “Crushing cherries is a hobby of mine,” Dom said.
And, still holding his stare, Dom bit the cherry off the skewer, rolling it deeper into his mouth. He ground it between his molars, until juice squirted onto his tongue, sweet and boozy.
Sinclair’s jaw went slack. It took him a moment. Then he understood, his eyes flying up to meet Dom’s.
Yeah, it gave Dom a kick to see the shock on his face. It was hardly professional. But whatever this thing was between them, it had stopped being professional since that very first day.
Gareth snorted and began choking on his drink. Nate pounded on his back. “You okay?” Nate asked.
Served Gareth right.
“Wait, what?” Alec’s brow furrowed in confusion.
Immediately after, Dom wanted to punch himself for pulling that crap. Whatever was between himself and Sinclair, it couldn’t bleed into the rest of the team. He wasn’t willing to take that risk.
He dropped the skewer back into his glass. “I was messing with him,” Dom said. “Next topic.”
He avoided Gareth’s questioning stare, and he very definitely avoided Sinclair’s eyes for the next hour. Mostly, Dom let the rest of the guys talk—the less he shared, the less he’d be vulnerable to the alpha next to him.
Later that night, Dom signaled for the bill. The waiter handed him the small leather folder; Dom slid his credit card inside and passed it back.
Sinclair pulled out his wallet. “How much do I owe you? I think I have enough in cash...”
“Jesse, no.” Alec laughed. “It’s bar night. It’s a treat. Dom and Gareth take turns footing the bill.”
Sinclair froze, staring at Alec. Then he looked at Nate, who shrugged, and Gareth, who nodded at Dom.
Slowly, like it pained him, Sinclair turned to meet Dom’s eyes. There was wariness in his gaze, and a sort of dread that Dom wasn’t sure he liked.
Sinclair tightened his scarred fingers around his wallet, every rise of his chest stretching his shirt. Was he... scared? Or just feeling awkward?
“Thanks,” Sinclair said, his voice low like an engine’s purr.
“No problem,” Dom answered, his own voice dipping into a rasp. As though his body thought he was speaking to a lover. And because he wasn’t conscious of it until it happened, it unnerved him.
A dark flush crept up Sinclair’s throat.
“Thanks, Dom,” Alec chirped, snapping that tension between them.
“Thanks,” Nate added.
Gareth just looked at Dom like he wanted explanations, but Dom didn’t have any to give.
The next bar night, Sinclair was conspicuously absent.
Sinclair stopped showing up to bar nights for a long time. To the extent that they had another probie, York, join the station. By this point, York had attended more bar nights than Sinclair had.
Almost a year had passed since that very first day. With each week, Dom felt the inevitability of this sinking in: despite how easily Sinclair got spooked, he handled most of his episodes well. He did his duties, he didn’t slack off even once. He got along with the rest of the team.
Really, he was just as competent as a regular recruit, and the only person who still had a problem with him, was Dom.
That was a secret. He’d buried it enough that even Gareth had gotten off his case. At the station, Dom addressed that alpha by his name. Inwardly, Dom thought of him as Sinclair, because he wanted to maintain some distance between them.
He still remembered Mal, and how easily Mal had ripped his heart into
