He still feels a sting from Rowan’s decision not to speak up in front of Melissa. It had hurt—he’d expected some support; just a little, really. Not an outright argument but something to help him up. Something to help show Melissa that Stephen was doing better. That things had changed in a week.

So much had changed.

He’d felt…different, after the week with Rowan. Not changed but faced with the possibility of change. It was better than he expected—as if all of his stress and self-doubt had evaporated. Something about the way Rowan put him at ease and made him forget about his past had helped him. Laughing each night, talking about happy memories, sharing their individual passions and dreams. He went to work each morning after without thinking about his failures—at least until Melissa showed up. Her argument just brought everything back again and he was left hopeless afterwards.

He didn’t go drinking that night, after seeing Melissa. He felt the compulsion to go and then something soured in his mouth. He was standing in front of his bed, thinking about the last time Rowan was there, and he hated to replace the taste of vanilla with the burn of whiskey. No matter how much Rowan had turned away, Stephen couldn’t help but wish for what they’d had. Not just the night they were intimate, but the simplicity of every night they had spent together and how nothing else had mattered. How there weren’t any questions or expectations.

Rowan trying to prove that he cared had just bolstered Stephen’s hope. Just a tiny bit; just enough for him to convince himself he could try...that there was a possibility. Still, no matter what he wants, he knows he can’t jump into anything again...not now that he’s felt pushed away once. He’s not about to jump back into bed again. He feels too old and too beaten for that kind of casual thing. He can’t stop caring about Rowan, though. Rowan just…cares, no matter how unaffected he is by everyone else. Stephen both wants to learn from him and show him just how to loosen up. Stephen isn’t sure how he ended up being one of the people Rowan likes, but he knows enough to know it’s a rare gift. He can’t lose it.

“What are you doing tonight?” Stephen asks without hesitation because he’s thought about it since last night. He knows his questions and he knows the ways Rowan could answer.

Rowan looks up from his line of cinnamon rolls, eyes wide as if caught by surprise. He hurriedly starts lining up another row, looking for all the world as if he’s running through an inner monologue. It makes Stephen want to laugh a little bit. He’s so cute.

“Um—going home? What…you think I’m flying off on a private jet? That’s only every other Friday.”

Stephen snorts, shaking his head. Okay, I planned for everything but his sarcasm. Which is, arguably, the only thing I could count on from him. Rowan’s smiling, a little more relaxed, which is good. I need him calm for this.

“Want to get dinner after work? Properly, this time.”

Rowan pauses. Stephen tries to keep working, acting as if it’s routine. He needs Rowan to know this is just a simple invitation; nothing attached. No sex; no helping the less fortunate. He’s just planning on something basic. Two friends going out. The fact that they’ve had sex—kind of—means nothing...or it does, but not in this context.

“Sure. Ideas?”

“Just one. You like Italian, right?”

“Sure,” Rowan smiles, finishing his tray. “What are we celebrating?”

“Adjustable shower heads.”

Rowan laughs harder than before and Stephen smiles inwardly. Good. This is good. Being on the same side feels so much better to him than not knowing who to trust. At least if he has Rowan he knows what to expect. He knows to expect the sarcasm and the quiet and the patient pragmatism. The truth, even when he doesn’t really want to hear it.

The day goes well. They work together better than even their first week of being friendly; they know each other’s routines and quirks now. Rowan always works on Stephen’s right side and he always grabs an extra spoon when mixing, knowing Stephen will forget his. Stephen passes Rowan extra flour for the table before mixing dough, sure that Rowan won’t have enough from his handful. Things do work so much more seamlessly with both men navigating with each other instead of just around each other. It’s as if they finish each other’s sentences, except they’re just passing ingredients and ducking away from lowering oven doors.

“That was fast,” Jen says, raising her eyebrows as Stephen slips a new tray of croissants into the case.

“Guess so. Productive day,” he shrugs, balancing the empty tray in his hand. Jen looks him over, a question flickering over her face.

“You know, it’s been a lot neater since you and Rowan have stopped bickering.”

“Who says we stopped?” Stephen replies, raising an eyebrow. Jen narrows her eyes at him, suspicious.

“Hey, asshole, I hate you. Also, the brownies are done,” Rowan supplies, leaning against the door to the kitchen.

“Thanks, jerk. Why don’t you crawl back under your mixing bowl for the rest of the week.”

They’re both grinning like idiots. Jen rolls her eyes and Rowan snickers, holding the door as Stephen slips into the kitchen. They let the doors swing shut, preparing to unload the oven, and then Jen yells back at them.

“You’re both weirdos!” she yells, leaning through the swinging doors for a brief moment.

“Be still, my heart,” Stephen snorts.

“She’s a real charmer,” Rowan grins.

Stephen feels more and more positive as the day passes—he and Rowan are more comfortable around each other again, even if Stephen keeps pulling back from too much contact. I just need someone to be on my side, he thinks, and being together would probably be a little too hasty. Not that he isn’t interested—the other night is proof enough of that. It’s just that he knows with heavy certainty that it would be irresponsible and damaging to get into a relationship when he’s still trying to convince himself every moment of the day not to drink to forget.

He doesn’t get nervous until right around closing. Was this a bad idea? He reminds himself that it’s not a date. That doesn’t stop him from dropping a spatula, though, which he has to rewash three times after dropping it again. Jen gives him a look when she comes in from the front to find him dropping it again.

“God damn it,” he mutters, throwing it into the sink.

“You tell that spatula, Stephen. It’s not the boss of you,” Jen says, grinning.

“I’m just hungry,” Stephen says by way of excuse, trying to concentrate on not dropping anything as he finishes up the rest of the dishes.

“Good thing we’re getting dinner,” Rowan muses, walking past with an empty cardboard box.

“Dinner?” Jen echoes, her smile slowly widening. Stephen resists the urge to sigh. It takes a lot of energy he doesn’t have.

“Yes, Jen. You know, the meal most humans eat in the evening. The last one of the day. Typically heavier than breakfast and lunch, although we’ve been told it should, in fact, be the lightest.”

“Okay, smartass. Guess I won’t have to drive your mopey butt home.”

Stephen snorts at that. He almost tunes Jen and Rowan out as he keeps working. The banter fills a gap he’s been pretending isn’t there.

He remembers being a kid in a quiet house. He’d turn the television on sometimes just to stop the silence from invading his mind. The kitchen was off-limits; he wasn’t allowed to touch anything and he was always terrified his mother would know, when she came home late, that he had done something. Most days he just let the radio or television murmur in the background while he drew, crayons filling up pages with cakes and carrots and all kinds of images copied from ads and magazines. He was kind of a tiny masochist, drawing all the things he couldn’t have—and when his mother got home, he would shove his things under the bed and wait for her to make pasta like she usually did, a cheap attempt to soak up the wine she usually polished off on her way back home.

Sometimes the fruit compote Jen makes reminds him of the wine his mother used to drink. He still can’t really bring himself to drink anything red. It feels wrong.

“Ready?” Rowan pulls Stephen out of his mind, untying his apron.

“Yeah. Yes,” Stephen corrects, shaking his head to rid himself of the memories. He can tell there’s a brief flash of worry and hesitation in Rowan’s eyes but the man seems to brush it away, instead opting to smooth things over. Pretend.

Rowan stays relatively quiet until they’re in the car, driving away from the bakery. He fidgets in his seat, knee jumping and then stopping self-consciously. His fingers tap on the side of the car door and then stop, twisting in his shirt. Stephen raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry. I, uh—I’m not used to not knowing where I’m going.”

“What, you? A control freak? I never would have guessed,” Stephen says, feigning surprise. Rowan gives him a pretend dirty look.

“Ha, ha, Rowan likes to know where he’s going, so funny. It’s good to know where you’re going,” he argues, “just in case you need to prepare.”

“We’re eating Italian, not going to war.”

“Food is war.”

Stephen laughs. He’s strange. A good strange, though. He feels a little privileged—as if he’s getting to see a side of Rowan that rarely comes out. The snappy comments and jokes all seem like tiny bits of gold. Precious moments. Stephen wants to collect them, hoarding them away to look back on after a bad day. He thinks they might make the world a little brighter.

Whoa. Too far. He draws himself back a little, adjusting his body to sit straighter.

He pulls into Sevini’s after fifteen minutes of driving, thankful he’s had time to pull himself together. He gets the feeling he’s going to need his composure.

“I don’t know if I ever came here,” Rowan admits, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows Stephen in. “Maybe I just don’t remember.”

“Maybe. It’s pretty popular,” Stephen muses, waiting to be seated. He recognizes the girl that walks up to them, her reddish-brown ponytail swinging with each step.

“Stephen! How are you?” she beams, pulling him into a hug.

“Good, Delancey. How’s the book coming along?”

“Almost finished,” she winks, “just doing some editing. Who’s your friend?” Stephen doesn’t miss the way she slides her gaze towards Rowan, something sly in her expression.

“Rowan,” Stephen introduces him, “he’s Jen’s cousin. Came down to help at the shop for a little while.”

“Rowan,” Delancey smiles, “Good to meet you. It’s nice to see Stephen finally bringing someone in. I was getting sad just watching him eat alone.”

She softens the words with a reassuring hand at his arm. He can’t really argue with her. He did probably look like a sob story, sitting in a corner booth with a plate piled high with pasta. It’s not my fault I like to eat a lot after working out, he thinks, and I’m tired when I come in. He doesn’t say anything, though, instead weaving through booths as Delancey sits them at a table in the back corner.

“You two get comfortable,” she smiles, “I’ll send someone over for drinks and orders in a few.”

“Thanks, honey,” Stephen smiles, waving her away.

“Are you sure you’re not working part-time as the mayor?” Rowan asks drily. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s fighting the urge to smile. Stephen smirks, wondering if he can get Rowan to crack.

“You caught me. Don’t tell Jen. I’m about to pass a new citywide tax to pay for my luxury condo in Miami.”

“Oh, she won’t like that. You know how vocal she gets about things she doesn’t like.”

“Of course. So, there will be a nice little donation to the bakery and Jen can get those ice cream machines she’s been harping about for the past three years.”

“Ice cream machines?” Rowan asks, finally breaking into laughter. “What the hell are we going to use ice cream machines for?”

Stephen almost forgets what he’s supposed to be worrying about. They pick up where they left off before Melissa showed up, and talk about unimportant things—whether pie or cake is better and whether it’s reasonable to assign three hours of homework per class in college—and eat between sentences, somehow carving a little world for themselves in the back of the restaurant. Rowan drops a bowtie pasta on the floor and Stephen pokes fun at him. Stephen almost spills his water, fumbling for the cup as it stutters at the edge of the table, and Rowan has to hide his face behind a cloth napkin to stop laughing.

“I think you’re going to have to roll me home,” Rowan says when they finish, elbows lazily braced on the table.

“I could put you in the bed of the truck,” Stephen snorts, “I’m sure that’ll be fun.”

“Please don’t. I once lost a baseball cap on the back of a truck. I’m traumatized.”

The waiter comes to pick up their dishes and slips a black checkbook onto the table. Stephen reaches for it and at the same time, Rowan does. Their hands meet over the folder, bumping awkwardly, and the tiny touch somehow upends everything. Stephen can feel his face heating up.

“I’ve got it,” he tries to say, waving Rowan away, but the other man just raises an eyebrow, slipping it away with an easy smile.

“My turn,” Rowan reminds him, twirling the pen over in his fingers. That looked nice, Stephen thinks numbly. What else is he good at—he stops himself quickly, trying to force himself to think of something—anything else.

Anything else but Rowan’s hands on his skin and his mouth...

“Thanks for coming,” Stephen says, a little too loud, and then he realizes what he’s just said is probably the most awkward choice he could have made. Kill me now. He feels like a stupid teenager again, trying and failing miserably to pretend he doesn’t have a massive crush on someone.

“I mean, how could I turn down food?” Rowan jokes. His smile is softer than before, as if he realizes the shift in tone.

How is he so good at making people feel comfortable? Stephen feels like he’s the one following when they leave the restaurant; he almost gives up the driver’s seat for a second, feeling like he’s the one being treated rather than the other way around.

“You and Jen are really close,” Stephen says before he can figure out why. “You grew up together?”

Maybe he’s thinking about Jordi when he says it. She’s a single child, after all. Or maybe he’s thinking about his own childhood, devoid of any relatives or siblings. Maybe he just really wants to know how Rowan is so good at being…good. At putting other people at ease.

“Yeah. We’re more like siblings than cousins,” Rowan smiles, looking out the window. “She was always more outgoing than me, though—and we’re not the same age, so we weren’t usually in the same friend group. It was still good, though. We grew up learning about baking from her father—my uncle.”

“So that’s why you two can bake in your sleep,” Stephen jokes. “I can never catch up.”

“You’re good,” Rowan insists immediately, turning in his seat suddenly, “Really great. You know when to start every batch and you know all the ins and outs of the shop. I might be able to make things, sure, but that doesn’t mean I know anything about the shop. I’d like to but I…gave that up, I guess.”

Stephen has to take a moment to absorb the litany of compliments. He feels a little warm from them—he was always a little unsure about his place at the shop, even if he’s aware of how much he knows. Something derails his train of thought, though.

“What do you mean, gave it up?”

“I kind of…ran away for college and never came back,” Rowan says uneasily. He turns back towards the door a little, an arm crossing over his chest. Closing himself off.

“But you did come back. You came to help—and Jen was happy; I’m pretty sure your aunt and uncle wouldn’t shut you out even if you broke the oven,” Stephen smiles, trying to poke at the man gently.

He’s gifted with probably the best sight he’s seen all day. Rowan smiles, genuine and warm, and his eyes seem to melt like pools of gold. God, I love his eyes, Stephen thinks.

“Thanks. But I still went off on a completely different path. Sometimes…I kind of wonder what it would be like if I’d stayed. Worked at the shop. I do love baking.”

“You could still do it,” Stephen tries, hoping he doesn’t sound too pushy or excited. “You’re obviously good at it and if you like it more, why not? There’s time. There’s always time.”

He pulls up to the guest house as he’s talking, stopping quietly in front of the door. Rowan stays in his seat for a moment, pondering. Stephen waits for him to speak, wondering what will happen. It’s true. There’s time. And maybe that would mean I’d get to see him more. Take time to learn about him. He feels like they accidentally skipped a lot their first night together, either because of exhaustion or pent-up frustration and desire. He wants to go back, to the part before sex. To the trust he’s missing.

But Rowan tugs his seatbelt off and then turns to Stephen, something unreadable in his expression. He leans over the tiny space between them and Stephen feels his breath hitch, panic and excitement and confusion swirling in his head. Everything seems to evaporate when Rowan kisses him, quiet and slow. Stephen doesn’t think when he reacts, desperate for the warmth; he pushes closer, a hand slipping behind Rowan’s neck, brushing against impossibly soft hair. His pulse thrums in his veins and he wants to pull Rowan over the center console to let him climb into his lap.

Wait. The reminder rings in his ears suddenly, cautioning, and he tries to pull away as gently as possible.

He feels like crying when he sees Rowan. The man’s expression is one of bliss, the peace fading away as he realizes what’s happened. All Stephen wants to do is lean in again, maybe follow him inside—but he can’t. He knows better.

“I can’t—” Stephen tries to say, hoping he’s not ruining everything, and he feels a mounting frustration. Why can’t things just be easy for me? He wants to say yes, follow Rowan inside and pick up where they left off. But he knows it’s a bad idea. Especially since he’s still spending his nights anxiously wondering about Jordi and whether or not he can completely stop drinking.

“I know,” Rowan says quietly. He looks frustrated—with himself, maybe, but Stephen can’t tell for sure. “I—um, it’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

“…night,” Stephen manages, watching helplessly as Rowan slips out of the car. The departure doesn’t feel soured or uncomfortable; it just feels…lacking. He thinks they could probably both tell what was laying beneath the surface—some sort of deep attraction, pulling them closer despite the fact that they need time. That Stephen needs time.

He so badly wants to find a way into Rowan’s heart, pulling himself close like nothing else in the world matters. But he’s not going to pursue anything while he’s still emotionally a mess; he doesn’t want to foist his problems onto someone he actually wants things to work out with. Besides which, he’s still having issues coming to terms with the fact that he’s somehow managed to start falling for a man from the city. They couldn’t be any more different.

Stephen showers and lies in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Rowan. It’s not until he’s drifting to sleep that he realizes that he not only didn’t have a glass of whiskey before bed, but he didn’t agonize over the decision. He simply didn’t do it. .

* * *

The shift happens after work the next day. Stephen is making mille-feuille and Rowan makes a comment—add nutmeg, it’ll taste better—and then Jen jokingly suggests they get together and update the recipe book.

They do.

“If we do this, you promise me something,” Rowan tells him, washing dishes as they close for the day.

“What?”

“We do our little baking sessions in the evening. After work. And if you ever feel the need to drink, you call me and we bake instead.”

“Even if it’s three in the morning?” Stephen asks, smiling. He feels his heart throb a little. It’s a good pain; it tells him he feels something real. Something he wants so badly he’s willing to make a leap for it.

“Especially if it’s three in the morning.”

Stephen holds him to it. They make garlic croissants one evening after work, a Wednesday when they’re both exhausted but they both want to spend time together. Jen waves them goodbye from her car and Rowan pulls his jacket tighter in the cooling night air.

“If I pass out in your mixing bowl, promise to pull me out,” Rowan groans as he slumps against the car door.

“That’s a promise I can’t keep,” Stephen smirks. When they get to his house, he reaches into the fridge and Rowan stiffens for a brief second. There are calculations and questions flying across his face. He looks like he wants to ask something or maybe say something or maybe both. Stephen pulls two cans out, trying to keep his face neutral. “Coke?”

“Yeah. Definitely. I’ll need the caffeine,” Rowan says, accepting the soda. Stephen thinks he hears relief in his voice.

It’s the only tense moment they have. The rest of the night goes easily, Rowan learning where everything is and Stephen watching Rowan as he bemoans the lack of fresh garlic in the house—bagged garlic? I can’t believe that’s a thing. It feels like time stretches into forever, like they’re in some sort of capsule where nothing can go wrong and nothing matters.

They meet again and again, a week going by in the blink of an eye. Each time Stephen feels more and more clear, as if he’s gradually wiping a film away from his life. He feels like he’s turned back time a few years, erasing the time he wasted and making up for it with endless batches of pastries he ends up handing out to the neighbors in the mornings. He has something different to look forward to, now.

They’re at work one evening and Rowan has an early shift. He doesn’t stay like he usually does; Stephen notices him untying his apron and frowns.

“Leaving?”

“Going to pick up a few things.” Rowan smiles. “The guest house needs some attention and I’m out of toothpaste. I’ll be back at close.”

Some of the worry in Stephen’s chest dissipates. He waves Rowan away and gets back to work, wondering what they’ll make next. He doesn’t have much time left here, he thinks. Maybe two weeks at most. The knowledge has been chewing away at the back of his mind. He hates to acknowledge it; thinking about the fact means recognizing that Stephen might lose his chance. That it could already be gone. If I don’t have him around to help me out, can I stay sober? Can I even stay happy? He wants to believe he can be better on his own. That’s what he needs; he needs to fix himself before he can consider being close to someone else.

It gets closer to closing and Stephen is cleaning up in the kitchen, stowing trays and wiping down counters. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pauses. No one texts him, much less calls—he almost hesitates to answer, wondering if it’s bad news, and then he sees Rowan’s name on caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hey. God—okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—” Rowan starts, the words spilling out in a rush, and Stephen feels anxious just listening to him.

“Whoa—slow down. Just start from the beginning, okay?”

“I was about to head back or ask you to pick me up and my aunt and uncle caught me. They want to go out for dinner with me and Jen.”

“Okay—that’s great, right?” Stephen leans against the counter, confused. Everything he’s heard from Rowan and Jen seems to indicate that they have a good relationship with Jen’s parents.

“I mean…it is, I just…we usually—”

“I’m not going to go dive into a bottle of Rebel Yell just because I don’t see you after work,” Stephen snorts. “Go. Have fun. If you still want to drop by later today, just give me a call. Okay?”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll do that,” Rowan says, sighing into the phone. “Bye.”

Stephen shakes his head, smiling, and finishes putting the kitchen in order. Jen emerges from the front with a good night and he waves her away, taking his time to check everything again before locking up. Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of his truck, looking at it with a blank mind. He jumps out of his trance when someone passes by on the sidewalk, laughing and talking on the phone.

“Don’t make this weird,” he mutters to himself, starting home.

There are bottles in his house. He knows this. Somehow, though, their call isn’t as strong as before. It’s still there, of course—just one drink isn’t going to affect you—but he ignores it. His heart seems to remind him that if he gets through the day, it means he’s still strong on his own. On a whim, he sets a record to play in the living room, gathering every bit of alcohol he knows he has and lining the bottles up by the sink. He hums absentmindedly to the music, pouring as he goes and trying not to wrinkle his nose at the burning smell. I guess my drain’s going to be really clean. Maybe I should use it in the bathroom sink, too.

He pours what’s left into a large pitcher to do just that, trying not to knock over empty rum and vodka and whiskey bottles, the glass a multicolored forest by his sink. They don’t even look happy. He feels a little bad as he’s pouring the cocktail down the bathroom sink—I probably should have just given it to someone—but he finishes “cleaning” anyway, wrinkling his nose at how much the house smells.

“Well, at least it still smells like home,” he says to no one in particular.

I wonder if Rowan will come by. He knows he’s too preoccupied by thoughts of Rowan; wondering how he’s doing, if he’s having a good dinner, if he’s thinking about going back to his apartment and job in the city. His heart aches a little at the thought but he can’t bring himself to feel inconsolable. Why don’t I feel as bad as before? He wonders if it was too much alcohol—he’s a bad, maudlin drunk—or if it’s just because he feels safe. Secure. Like no matter what happens, he’s not going to lose Rowan, or what they have. It’s progress.

He makes a frozen pizza and finishes the entire thing, despite his better judgment. He walks up to his bedroom afterward, thinking he’ll watch something on his bed, and promptly passes out on top of the sheets, tired and full. The smell of alcohol is still in the air but he somehow ignores it, thinking instead about asking Rowan to make pies next. He likes pies.