Pax forgot to turn off Cliff’s damn alarm clock, and he woke murdering buttons with a sleepy fist. Cliff laughed under him, hand clamped around his wrist, trying to save his precious glow-in-the dark digits.

Pax groaned and dropped his chin against the crook of Cliff’s neck. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Toneless Tuesday?” Cliff queried dryly. “I forgot all about that very real tradition.”

“That’s right. Luca will be very disappointed if I do more than whisper.”

“I’ll let you off playing Chopin, then. Luckily, running is a quiet sport. Up you get.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. You’ve heard me run.”

Cliff sucked in a wince. “You make a good point.”

Fingers dragged over Pax’s thinly covered back and settled at the skin above the waist of Cliff’s musical boxers.

Tired as Pax was, that tickling touch charged his dick in no time.

Pax hummed, lips vibrating against Cliff’s smooth, warm throat. “Of course, there is other exercise we could do.” He pulled up, hands planted either side of Cliff’s shoulders. “Unless you’re already regretting last night?”

Cliff held his gaze so tightly that Pax’s throat dried. “Not yet.”

Pax cocked his hips against Cliff. “How about not at all?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, let’s fuck and then eat breakfast.”

They fucked. They ate breakfast.

The fucking was frantic and intimate.

The breakfast was silent and tense.

Their gazes played tag with each other over the cereal bowls, and their words were drowned in silent thoughts of what was happening between them.

They both leaped from their seats when Bianca entered the dining room, as though they’d been caught playing footsie under the table.

“You have your first date with Henry tonight,” Pax blurted. The chair cut into the back of his knees and he shoved it back. Wood screeched against wood. Could Pax be more awkward? “So. Um. Where’s he taking you?”

Bianca gave him a funny look and astutely flicked her gaze to her brother. Nothing out of the ordinary in his pose, but Pax fancied there was a slight flush to his cheeks.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice, smirking down to the cup. Then answered Pax, “There’s this fancy Italian restaurant he wants to try.”

Cliff’s brow arched in much the same manner Pax’s did. “Italian?” they said together.

“Yeah,” she said with a twist of her lips. “That’s weird, right?”

“Maybe Shakespeare should read some Freud.”

She shrugged. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Your brother,” Pax spun off.

Her eyebrows shot up, gaze glittering with amusement. Cliff’s, on the other hand . . . all daggers.

Pax cleared his throat. “Your brother is helping me return the piano to band practice.”

Cliff shut his eyes with a small shake of his head.

Bianca bubbled a laugh in her juice. “So. Band practice. Excited about the performance of your dreams on Friday?”

She was totally milking this moment of all awkwardness. Dwelling in it. Such a fucking teenager. He poked his tongue out at her and she giggled.

“Don’t you have rehearsal?”

“I quite like the drama unfolding right here.”

“Off you go,” Cliff said with a telling look.

Bianca sighed and backed out of the room, gaze dancing between them.

The room thickened with silence. Cliff folded his arms in quite the parental pose. “The performance of your dreams, is it?”

“It’s Lone Whistle and the Deserted.”

Cliff’s brow pinched, then he dropped his arms. “Breakfast was . . .”

“Fun?”

“Awkward.”

“Another work in progress.”

Cliff hesitated at Pax’s description, and a fleeting smile crossed his face. He schooled it. “All right.” He clapped his hands together. “I have stuff to do.”

“You sure do.” Pax maneuvered his way toward the warm block of man and waggled his brows.

“Work, Apollo,” Cliff said, and busied himself in gathering the dishes. “You’ll have to entertain yourself until it’s time for me to drop you off at band practice.”

Cliff steered around him and plunked dishes into the kitchen sink.

Pax tailed him. “Can’t you take the day off?”

“Nope.” Cliff twisted and leaned back against the sink. His eyes kept skipping to Pax’s lips, and Pax made an extra effort to lick them. “How about you make some music for that song you wrote.”

“The song about friendship?”

“The song you wrote for Luca.”

So he’d figured out the song was for Luca. “Are you jealous?”

Because there was another song he’d been working on, too. One Pax hadn’t quite finished.

“I am jealous. And I’ll be more so when I hear it to music.” Hands gripped his hips and turned Pax around. “So how about you wind me up by making it the best piece I’ve ever heard?”

“I do like winding you up.”

Cliff herded him laughing toward the front door.

Pax spun around in Cliff’s arms. “Wanna make some music together first?”

Cliff reached around him and opened the front door, letting in a whoosh of warm air. “Have a productive day, Apollo.”

Hands steered him over the threshold and cool wood bit the soles of his feet.

“Hey. What about my shoes?”

The door shut in his stupidly smiling face.

Pax sauntered home and declared to Luca—who was working with the guts of a computer in his bedroom—that Shakespeare had lost his mind and that Luca would steal Bianca’s heart.

Luca looked up from prodding a screwdriver against a board of wires and chips. “Losing his mind?”

“More than he already was.”

Luca sank back into his chair, delighted.

That accomplished, Pax fueled the day with music.

The angel stared at him from his bedroom windowsill and Pax picked her up as he shamelessly stared at Cliff settled at his desk in his study. His fingers tightened on the base of the angel as the overwhelming need to sing rippled through him.

He opened his window so that one pane of glass blocked him from Cliff and began to sing into his microphone angel.

And holy hell, his voice carried. Maybe the room’s acoustics were good—or maybe there was something about this angel.

Cliff had been writing notes and paused at Pax’s singing. He didn’t look up, but the pen didn’t move again until after Pax had finished belting out Luca’s song.

Pax grinned.

Now to move Cliff off his damn chair, have him open his window, and beg Pax to come over.

Pax settled the angel down, connected his guitar to his amp, and lit their houses with tunes. He sank into the music. Each strum slid sensuously through him, and it felt . . . felt like an echo of Cliff’s touch.

Good. Great, even.

But not nearly as breathtaking as the real thing.

He softened his strumming and relished the moment when Cliff lifted his head up and their gazes met.

He softened it further. Come on. Come over here and open the window. Pax would wrap Cliff around his plucking fingers.

Pax knew the song to play. The one they’d been playing from the start. Third time was always a charm.

He winked at Cliff, stopped playing for a few beats, and then ba-ba-ba-boomed into Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5.

Cliff stood.

Pax played with his heart drumming to the beat.

Cliff motioned for him to turn around. Pax enjoyed the finger-pointed direction and turned around. He continued playing, imagining Cliff behind him stripping. When Pax turned around maybe Cliff would be at the window, head thrown back, jerking off to his music.

Holy fuck, he hoped he was right.

Wood rumbled against wood, the sound of a window rattling open.

Pax turned on the last chord of the song and ended with the cheekiest thrust of his hips.

Cliff was leaning out of his window—still dressed, unfortunately.

Any second now, he’d open those sinful lips. Those green eyes would grow dark, as he’d ask him over—

With a gentle lift of his brow, Cliff reached for something out of view, and suddenly Pax’s sneakers were hurtling through the air and into Pax’s room. They hit the floor and rolled to his feet.

Pax jumped back and let out a yelp of indignation. “What?”

Cliff barely paused as he pulled down the window. “Sounds like we both have work to do.”