Dylan switched his phone to silent and set it face down on the beer-slick table. Logic told him to jam it in his pocket and forget about it, but he wasn’t quite there yet. His phone had been ringing all day . . . and he’d been ignoring it all day. The party line was that he was at work and unable to take personal calls, but the truth was that he had no desire to speak to his dad, his landlord, Sam, or, indeed, anyone that wasn’t Angelo. Fuck that noise.

And of course Angelo hadn’t called since they’d spent the day together at the deli on Monday, and given that it was Friday now, it didn’t seem likely that he would. Which had left Dylan in the worst mood ever⁠—an unfortunate thing for his long list of clients. And for his bank balance when he’d ditched a solitary train ride home in favour of hitting the pub. A few Friday night pints had seemed like a good idea then, but by the time eight o’clock had rolled past, taking the last bastion of his sobriety with it, he’d changed his fucking mind.

Shame he couldn’t undrink four pints and an ill-advised round of Sambuca shots, though he was kind of glad for the booze buffer when a familiar hand closed around his shoulder some time between should’ve gone home o’clock and fuck it, let’s get wasted hour. “Go away, Sam,” Dylan slurred.

“Right. ’Cause that’s how it fucking works.”

Sam’s trademark growl had nothing on Angelo’s perfect contradiction of smoothness and grit, but it compelled odd feelings in Dylan all the same. He allowed Sam to tow him outside and dump him on a nearby bench and then looked up with a sneer that Sam would be proud of. “What brings you here, sweet friend?”

“What do you think?” Sam’s expression was hard. “You’ve been playing cat and mouse with me for weeks, and I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“You couldn’t just stalk my Facebook like a normal person?”

“I’m not a teenage girl. You could’ve just answered the phone.”

“I called you back.”

“Once. At nine o’clock in the morning when you knew I’d be at work.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, aware that he was being a prick but somehow unable to stop. “What’s your point?”

Sam’s glare burned nuclear. “Are you taking the piss?”

“No, mate. I’m deadly serious about this fucking ridiculous conversation. It’s not like I haven’t told you that I want some space.”

“You didn’t tell me shit. You told Eddie.”

“Same thing.”

“Is it? Last time I checked, we were still individuals, and it ain’t Eddie you’ve been best mates with for all these years.”

Reality began to creep into Dylan’s drunken haze. In the rare moments when he hadn’t been obsessing over Angelo, he’d felt guilty for explaining himself to Sam through his girlfriend, but not enough to do anything about it⁠—like pick up the phone.

He stared at Sam, suddenly hit by all that they’d shared, good and bad. They’d worked together at Sam’s grandfather’s greasy spoon and cried together when Sam’s beloved grandmother had finally died. They’d partied all over London⁠—Sam keeping Dylan company on the many, many nights he just couldn’t sleep⁠—and survived the times Dylan had scraped Sam off the kitchen floor and nursed him out of a diabetic coma. Didn’t Sam deserve better than a second-hand phone call? “I’m sorry.”

Some of the fight left Sam and he sank onto the bench beside Dylan. “I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to be okay. You know I’d never hurt you, don’t you?”

“Of course.” It was true. Sam had never lied to Dylan or led him on. Dylan had walked into everything that had happened between them with his eyes open. “I’m just not as okay with it as I used to be.”

“Why not?”

Now there was a question. Dylan wrestled with his beer-addled brain and tried to verbalise a coherent answer. “I guess seeing you and Eddie so happy reminds me of what I don’t have.”

“You want a girlfriend?”

Dylan shrugged. “I’m more into lads at the moment, but I do know that I’m pretty tired of sleeping alone.”

“Then stop banging people in sex clubs and get out into the real world⁠—⁠”

“Hey⁠—⁠”

“Don’t.” Sam held up his hand. “You always end up going mad in that place when you’ve got a cob on about shit, so don’t even try to deny it.”

“You sound mad northern right now.”

“I’m from Leeds. Deal with it.” Sam ditched the fierceness he’d arrived with. “Look, I get what you’re saying, okay? And you know there’s been times when I’ve wished things were different, but I can’t change who I am.”

“I know that. I’ve never asked you to.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Dylan shrugged again. “Well, I suppose I could go for some pierogi next time Pops is making some.”

Sam’s glower returned like it had never been gone. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, but it’s all I have right now, and I’m hungry, so . . .”

Sam sighed, defeat seeping out of him like smoke from a dying fire. “If I buy you a kebab, will you promise to stop dodging my calls? I respect that you need to take a step back, but I can’t handle worrying about you. You’re my best mate, and I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” Another inconvenient truth. It would’ve been easier if Sam had rejected him, turned him down that first time they’d shared a drunken kiss, and they’d never spoken of it again. But it hadn’t played out that way. Sam was the best friend Dylan had ever had, and life without him was hard. “Can we get battered sausages instead?”

Sam finally smiled. “Sure.”

* * *

It was the wanker side of midnight by the time Dylan made it home from Stratford. After a sneaky fried dinner with Sam, they’d taken the scenic route to the station via a few more pubs. At moments, it had felt like old times⁠—like nothing had changed⁠—but when they’d parted ways, they’d both seemed to know that it would be longer than two weeks before they saw each other again.

At home, Dylan threw himself onto his bed. His night had taken an unexpected turn, and despite sinking even more beer after Sam had tracked him down in his favourite Stratford haunt, he felt surprisingly sober. Fuck my life.

Restless, he rolled over and pulled his phone from his pocket to stop it digging into his hip. That he’d remembered to grab it from the wet table before Sam had yanked him out of the pub was a miracle, and he hadn’t looked at it since. If he had, he’d have seen the three missed calls from Sam and one from an unknown number.

Dylan sat up, his heart turning a sudden, drunken cartwheel in his chest. He’d used his phone for business when he’d worked at the bank and still got calls from random overseas numbers, but this was a UK mobile number. Angelo? Dylan didn’t fancy the disappointment if it turned out to be Nanna pocket dialling him from an ancient handset she’d bought on eBay, but hope still started a rave in his veins.

He swiped at his phone and brought up the call log. The number taunted him and his thumb pressed CALL of its own accord. Stomach in his mouth, Dylan activated the speaker and stretched out on his front, his chin on his folded arms. It occurred to him far too late that it was after midnight, and the line crackled to life before he could correct his mistake.

“Yeah?”

Dylan’s breath escaped him in a whoosh. “Angelo? Is that you?”

“Um . . . yeah, I think so. I just woke up, so it’s hard to tell.”

“Shit. Sorry.” Dylan cringed and grabbed his phone. “I can ring back tomorrow⁠—⁠”

“Nah, it’s all right.” Angelo cut him off and then yawned before he went on. “I was kinda hoping you’d call.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long week, and, uh, is it weird that I’ve missed you?”

Warmth spread through Dylan from his scalp to his toes. “Maybe, but that makes me a weirdo too, because I’ve missed you.”

“It doesn’t feel like we’ve only met six times.”

“Wow. Is that all it is?” Dylan rolled over and dropped his phone on his chest. “Are we counting the club?”

“It’d be four without it.”

The mere thought of their club encounters sent Dylan into overdrive. His skin tingled and heat flooded his groin. “I guess numbers don’t mean much.”

“Not in this context.”

Absorbed as he was by his Angelo-themed buzz, Dylan picked up the bleakness lacing Angelo’s tone. “I shouldn’t ask if you’ve heard from the DRO advisor.”

“So don’t.”

“Um, okay?”

Angelo sighed. “Sorry. I’m just sick of thinking about it. I took my mum to that business advice centre today, and they told her she should sell the house and downsize if she wants to keep the deli, and she basically had a fucking breakdown. She doesn’t seem to understand that this is the last chance she’ll have to make the decisions herself.”

“Is there enough equity in the house to bail out the deli?”

“And then some. She could get a bungalow down the road and forget all about it.”

“What about you? Where would you live? I’m assuming you’d still run the deli for her if she paid the debts off?”

“It was never my plan to stick around, but it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.”

“And you could hire some staff?”

“I’d have to. Working it on my own is fucking killing me.”

Dylan didn’t doubt it. His impromptu shift at Giordano’s had been busy, and he couldn’t imagine how Angelo coped by himself at the weekends. “Do you think she’ll sell the house?”

“After this morning? Not a chance in hell.”

“Damn. So what are you going to do?”

Angelo didn’t respond straight away. Dylan listened to him breathe and closed his eyes. If the context of their conversation had been different, Angelo’s gentle exhales could’ve sent him to sleep. Maybe. If sleeping was something that ever came that easy. As it was, Dylan settled for a gentle meditation and wondered if his heart was beating in time with Angelo’s.

“So . . . ,” Angelo said.

Dylan opened his eyes. “Hmm? Sorry, I mean . . . yeah?”

“Are you drunk?”

Was he? He’d felt pretty sober when he’d come home, but Angelo’s voice did strange things to him. Had done since the very first time. Huh. Perhaps he was drunk on Angelo.

The thought made him chuckle. “I’ve had a few,” he said when he’d composed himself. “I’m not twatted, but if you need financial advice, we should probably talk again in the morning.”

“I didn’t call you to talk about that.”

Relief warred with concern. “No? Well, you can, if you ever need to. I can’t give you professional guidance, but I can be your friend.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

And then some. But Dylan couldn’t define the pull he felt for Angelo, the ache in his bones when they were apart, and the crazy-hot current when they were together. “We can try. Though I should warn you . . . apparently I’m not too good at separating friendship from fucking, so . . .”

“Are you talking about the BFF again?”

“How did you guess?”

“Because you get all melancholy and shit whenever he comes up.”

“Jealous?”

“Curious, actually.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you fuck like a fella who’s trying to get something out of his system.”

“Says you.”

Angelo chuckled darkly. “Okay. Let’s not go there, eh? Seems like we’ve both got some ghosts to escape.”

“And friends can help each other out with that, right?”

“Yes. They can have dinner together too . . . I mean, if you fancy it?”

Dylan fancied more than just dinner, but it seemed a healthy place to start. He arranged to meet Angelo at Giordano’s after closing time the next day, and they exchanged slightly awkward goodbyes. When Angelo had hung up, Dylan stared at his darkened phone screen, like he could see through it to Angelo’s brooding eyes and lose himself in them. They’d set their date for early evening, but Saturday was club night, in Dylan’s nocturnal life, at least. Would Angelo want to go to Lovato’s after?

The possibility excited and horrified Dylan in equal measure. A dirty night out with Angelo set him on fire, but could he watch Angelo fuck someone else? Turn them inside out with his dick while Dylan stepped aside? He had no right to think not, but as he closed his eyes in the hope of at least a few hours sleep, he was sure of nothing but the fact that the prospect of seeing Angelo again, in any capacity, had given him a near permanent boner.