The next morning, Drew wakes up in such a good mood that he stops by the front office to tell Martha good morning. He isn’t sure why he does it, why he even thought of it, but the receptionist’s face lights up and she gives him a cup of coffee from the employee break room. It’s ten times better than the complimentary instant shit in his room and he ends up thanking her quite genuinely and profusely.

He walks to work, nodding to the people he passes on the street. It’s not so much that Drew is an antisocial asshole, but he never really cared enough to greet the people in the towns he’s been in before.

And he’s not dumb enough to think it’s just because he’s getting laid and occasionally having some pretty okay conversation. He might be a drifter, but Drew has gotten laid and had a social life in the other towns he’s passed through. It’s not entirely uncommon for him to speak to other people. It’s just that he doesn’t usually care if he talks to them. And it doesn’t usually change his mood at all.

He just thinks maybe Kansas isn’t the worst.

He hums to the tune of old AC/DC songs while he mixes and pours and sifts. He even says hi to the other employees when they start coming in, surprising a few of them enough that they just blink instead of greeting him back. Drew finishes his regular morning workload on time, if not a little early. He has muffins and brownies and a few breads done right when they’re ready to open.

He toys with the idea of taking an extra long break since he’s done but decides that he has a bit too much energy for that. He’d end up back at Amelia’s and he’d end up flirting or confessing something or pushing Peter against a wall—

Drew shakes his head. He does not need to entertain those ideas right now, at work.

But after work—well, Drew still owes Peter a thorough lavishing. Preferably with his tongue while he draws profanity from Peter’s mouth; that’s one of Drew’s favorite things about the mouth on his chef.

“Hey, jackass.” A snapping of fingers in front of his face breaks Drew’s concentration and he curses, jumping.

He’s spilled a little of the syrupy frosting he’s working on, the substance pooling on his workspace. He looks up, glaring at his boss.

Sal is truly an atrocious man. Drew grits his teeth and reminds himself that the pay is pretty good.

“Where are the pumpkin breads I asked for?” he demands.

Drew counts to five. “There were no pumpkins here, Sal,” he says slowly.

Sal furrows his brow. His confusion presses against the aggression and it’s so unappealing Drew has a vivid fantasy of quitting.

“I can’t make any goddamn pumpkin bread without pumpkin, Sal,” he pushes the words out from his clenched jaw. “I made banana and apple breads instead.”

“I didn’t ask you to make those!” Sal flattens his palms on the table, crowding into Drew’s space. Drew drops his hands to his pocket to hide his fists. “I wanted pumpkin bread.”

“Should’ve bought some fucking pumpkins, then.”

Sal stares at him before scoffing and turning on his heel, leaving the kitchen while muttering under his breath. Drew ignores it in favor of counting again and searching for a rag to clean up the spilled almost-frosting.

“That guy,” the head waiter Tim sets a tray down next to Drew’s bowl, watching Sal slip out the door, “is the worst.”

“Yeah,” Drew agrees easily. “I don’t know how he’s actually a business owner.”

Tim laughs. Rita, another waitress, comes over as if her ears perked up the second they started shit talking.

“Oh my god, did you hear how he even got this place?” She leans in as if she’s whispering but her voice projects clearly through the kitchen. Drew looks around and sees everyone leaning towards them, listening.

“No,” Tim says. “How?”

“He bought up the property from his uncle and his grandfather gave him the loan. No bank in their right mind would support him,” Rita says. “I don’t know how he’s got customers supporting him.”

Tim reached over and lightly punched Drew on the shoulder. “I can make one guess.”

“That’s true,” Rita agrees. She shoots Drew a smile, the shy kind that he’s gotten from too many girls in the past, and he barely withholds his wince. “We did get lucky with you.”

“I won’t be staying long, though,” he says. He turns back to the mixture, folding in a bit of powdered sugar. “He’s going to have to change if he wants to actually beat Amelia’s when I leave.”

“Amelia’s?”

Drew looks up at the surprised tone Rita and Tim parroted. Tim grins while Rita’s brow furrows.

“Yeah,” Drew frowns. “They’re, like, the main competition. Right?”

He looks between them as they exchange a glance. Rita takes pity first.

“Kind of,” she shrugs. “They’re pretty close by.”

“And they’re really good,” Drew adds.

“Yeah, sure. The food’s good. But—” Tim cuts himself off.

Drew sets down the spoon. “But what?”

“The place has just been different, you know,” Rita interjects. “Since Amelia died and her son took over.”

Drew blinks. Rita barrels forward. “He’s still a pretty good cook and everything, but, like, come on. No one wants to eat there but like my grandma or people with little kids. The place isn’t exactly—”

“Atmospheric,” Tim says. “Fun to be in. Not caving in.”

Cool air rushes through his veins. He feels his skin hardening to protect itself from the cold. “I liked it.”

“You would,” Rita laughs. “You’re always traveling, on the road. It’s homey but it’s also a dive.”

“It’s really good,” Drew doesn’t know why he’s arguing. He thought the same thing about Amelia’s every time he walked in.

“It’s okay,” Tim says. “But even though Sal’s an asshole, as long as he stays away from the customers, he’s probably not going to lose to Amelia’s. It’s still the better choice.”

Drew couldn’t even fathom how much he disagreed.

“Plus,” Rita adds. “The guy that owns the place is such an ass.”

Drew nearly jumps, he’s so surprised. “Peter?”

Tim cocks his head. “You know him?”

“No,” Drew says quickly. “I just—saw him there once or twice. Whatever. Didn’t seem like an ass to me.”

“Well, he is,” Rita crosses her arms. “He always has been. Too good for everyone in this town.”

“That doesn’t seem—right.”

Tim jumps in. “He is, though. Did you hear what he did to Kyle?”

“Kyle?”

“Kyle Downs. He works down at Wayne’s Market. Peter and Kyle were dating for, like, ever and the guy just broke up with him! Out of the blue. Said he just didn’t care.”

Drew frowns and looks at Rita for confirmation. She nods. “Yeah, Kyle wanted them to move in together and the guy literally just couldn’t be bothered! He said that and everything.”

That really didn't sound like Peter.

But it doesn’t really matter. So the guy isn’t that fond of his ex even before he was an ex—Drew has definitely been there.

“Doesn’t seem like a huge thing,” Drew picks up the spoon and pokes at the frosting. The consistency’s off but it doesn’t seem unsalvageable.

Rita shakes her head. “It’s not just that. He’s just—I don’t know, it’s none of our business, obviously.”

Drew narrows his eyes. “What isn’t?”

“It’s just that he doesn’t seem to care about people, you know. We used to be friends, kind of, when he was going with Kyle and he hasn’t even spoken to us once since they broke up. And it’s not because he’s mad or being nice to Kyle or whatever. He just doesn’t care. I don’t think he ever has.”

Drew adds more powdered sugar. He contemplates.

“And, yeah, sure, it’s none of our business. But it’s also our friend and I don’t like that. I don’t like him.”

“He just uses people until he’s bored,” Tim says, straightening up and grabbing the tray he’d sat down earlier. “At least Sal knows he’s an ass.”

Tim and Rita leave Drew alone with his frosting after that. He finishes it absently, barely remembering to put in his homemade vanilla extract in time.

He’s not sure what to do with the new information he’s gleaned about Peter. It doesn’t necessarily matter—he doesn’t give a shit that his coworkers don’t like Peter; he barely likes Peter and he definitely doesn’t like his coworkers. It rubs against the idea of the man though and surprises him. Normally, Drew likes surprises.

He finishes the next few tasks quickly, refusing to chit chat with any of the other employees when they come in.

He takes off his apron, tossing it on the counter. With the new early opening, Drew has been at work for almost a full day’s work. He’s also finished more than he actually needs to have done in one day so he decides, even if it is an hour early, he’s going to just go home. Sal can just fucking deal.

He crosses through the restaurant, ignoring the customers sporadically placed, and the wait staff that try to wave at him. He makes it to Sal’s office, fist raised to knock on the door, when he hears voices.

He hesitates. He doesn’t want to piss Sal off more by interrupting but he also really doesn’t want to stand here and listen to whatever he’s got to say. He can barely stomach Sal’s voice when he has to; listening unnecessarily seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

Groaning, Drew gently lets his head fall against the wood of the door. He wants to slam his head into it a few times. His good mood from the morning is all but non-existent and he just wants to crawl back into the motel’s bed.

“They’re going to find out,” Drew hears a low voice from behind the door, his head close enough to pick up the words now. “You can’t seriously expect the lie to last.”

Drew frowns. He turns his head, pressing his ear against the wood.

“No one will find out unless one of my own blabs. And everyone here loves me,” Sal’s thick voice says.

“Sure,” Drew nearly snorts at the disbelief in the other man’s voice. It sounds a bit like Dan, the head chef. “Except that maybe anyone could find out. You have a lot of employees.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, it’s not a big deal.”

“Well, no, but it—”

“Some of the food is frozen. Who cares?”

“Sal, man, basically everything—”

“Let me ask you. Do I pay you to ask questions? To stir trouble? Or do I fucking pay you to cook?”

“Sal—”

“What do I pay you for, Dan?”

There’s silence for a second. Drew strains against the door to hear.

“To cook.”

“Good. Now, go do that before I have to find somebody else.”

Drew jumps away from the door when the handle starts to creak, running his hand through his hair. He turns around and tries to wipe the guilty expression off his face when Dan comes out of the office.

Dan looks surprised to see him; Drew tries to copy that.

“Hey.” Drew nods.

Dan nods back and passes him, heading towards the kitchen. Drew takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

“What the hell is it?” Sal’s voice gets louder as Drew opens the door, not quite stepping into the office but waiting just outside of it.

“I’m done for the day,” he says. “Thought I’d let you know.”

Sal frowns, looking around for a clock. “It’s early.”

“Got here early,” Drew replies. “And finished early.”

Sal opens his mouth but then rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t be late tomorrow.”

Drew stops himself from glaring outright.

“See you tomorrow, Sal,” he says from between gritted teeth.

Drew storms out of the restaurant, half a second away from quitting. His mood has gone sour and he hates his boss and he hates his coworkers and he hates this town. He never should have invested any amount of time in it.

He hesitates outside, feet angling towards Amelia’s. Then he remembers what Rita was saying and he remembers that he doesn’t want to deal with shit like that, he doesn’t want to deal with people, and he turns on his heel to stomp towards the Sunnyside Motel.

He makes it to the motel in record time, locking the door behind him and throwing himself on the bed.

God, he feels dumb.

He feels dumb and he feels angry and he’s not sure why he’s feeling either of those things.

He rolls over on his stomach, closing his eyes, and decides to wait the bad mood out.

He falls asleep before that happens.

—

Drew jolts awake a few hours later. He blinks, heart pounding in his chest, and looks down at his watch; it’s seven-thirty now and he groans, rubbing his hand over his face.

He rolls over, stretching against the mattress. His whole body aches, reprimanding him for sleeping so long.

His stomach growls and he climbs out of bed, looking around the motel room. He probably has some snacks, a few chips bags laying around from the vending machine, but the idea of eating junk curls his stomach.

Drew’s still dressed, shoes still on and everything, from work. He grabs his jacket and keys and slips out of the motel room.

He only deliberates for half a second before making his way towards Amelia’s.

His stomach flips when he pushes through the door, something anxious flooding through him. He regrets coming in as soon as he sees how empty it is.

The waitress, Allison he thinks her name is, jumps up from her perch on the stool and waves to him. “Drew!” She says loudly, head angled a bit away from him. “Hi!”

“Hey,” he frowns, walking across the room to slide into the booth he’d been in the first time he came. It’s tucked in the corner and he doesn’t wait to see where she’d put him. “Can I see the menu?”

“Oh! Sure,” she scrambles behind the counter before coming around to him, setting it down.

“Coffee,” he tells her without lifting his eyes from scanning the menu. “And I’ll take a patty melt.”

He hands the menu back to her and she nods, not writing anything down. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” he offers her a small smile when he realizes he’s basically glaring, trying to soften his expression. There are needles beneath his skin, setting him on edge.

He scoots himself until he’s in the farthest part of the booth away from everyone else. There’s only one other table occupied and from the way Allison keeps going over and talking to them, brushing the kids’ hair out of their faces, he’s assuming they’re family.

He shouldn’t have come here. His head pounds, a steady ache that he thinks must have developed because of his nap. He doesn’t actually want to see Peter.

His stomach flips at the thought of it.

Allison drops off his coffee and a glass of water. He thanks her and tries his best not to sound sarcastic.

Drew places his head in his hands. He hates this town. He’s been here too long already and he shouldn’t be giving a shit about the people here—which he doesn’t, not really, but kind of.

He can still hear Rita and Tim’s voices in his head, the way they were both so disdainful of Peter. Drew hadn’t thought anyone could be. And it wasn’t that he cared about their opinion or anything, it was just—

He doesn’t really know Peter at all. And he wasn’t trying to get to know him so it didn’t matter. He just kind of thought he did, was all.

He groans and cuts himself off, clamping his lips together, when Allison sets the plate on the table.

“You alright?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.

She’s a pretty girl and she seems nice. Drew thought she was probably a sweet person; he wonders what other people in town think, though. The ones that actually know her.

Drew never really considered himself a good judge of character.

“I’m fine,” he says, upending his napkin to his lap. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” she says, still frowning, before someone at the other table calls for her and she darts away.

He takes a bite of his patty melt and sighs. It is, of course, delicious. Drew thinks that maybe half of his fondness for Peter—if he can call it that, he’s not sure that’s quite the right word for it—is his cooking. He really is a good cook.

Maybe he’d teach Drew how to make one of these sandwiches before he leaves. It’s not often that Drew’s motel rooms have a kitchenette but sometimes they do and, usually, he can find baking gigs that let him stay over night and he’d have access to a kitchen then. It’d be good to be able to make something on his own, besides cakes and pastries.

He’s halfway through the melt when he feels Peter come up to the booth.

Goosebumps break out across his skin and his throat closes. He focuses hard, swallowing the bite in his mouth, but its hard and slow. When he finally does, he takes a long pull of his coffee. He waits until Peter slides into the booth across from him before he looks up.

Peter looks good.

He usually does, that was the main thing that Drew noticed about him at first. He knows that since they pretty much make out every time they see each other, the occasional baking days notwithstanding, his body has gotten accustomed to a particular physiological reaction to Peter’s presence. His skin’s hot and his lips feel dry and he would much rather be pressed up against the cook then eat any of his food.

Peter smiles at him and Drew feels the tension in his body start to drain.

“So,” Peter says, leaning across the table. “Are you here with dirt for me?”

Drew feels ice water drench his body. The cold air hits him and his hair freezes, his skin puckering up from the ice. He knows no one else can tell, but he feels soaked to the bone.

“It’s just that he doesn’t seem to care about people, you know.”

“He just uses people.”

His coworkers’ voices ring in his head. Drew’s face hardens and he clenches his jaw, counting to five until he can manage to unclench it.

“What’s happening?” Peter asks, brows furrowing together. “Why are you just glaring at me?”

“I’m not,” Drew snaps. He glares harder.

“Um, you are,” Peter looks around as if there’s anyone around that can help explain Drew’s sudden drop in mood to him. “I don’t know why.”

“Of course you don’t,” Drew scoffs. “Doesn’t really matter to you, does it?”

“I—what?”

“Whatever,” Drew throws his napkin on the table and goes to leave. Peter’s hand snaps out and wraps around Drew’s wrist, holding him there.

“Wait, Drew, I—” Peter drops his hold on Drew. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“It’s nothing,” Drew pulls back his hand. He crosses his arms but doesn’t leave the booth. “I’m just not sure how useful I’ll be.”

Peter still looks as confused as he did a second ago but now there’s anger there, too. His eyes are narrowing and his lips are pursed in a thin line.

Good, Drew thinks. Get mad.

Then at least he won’t be the only one.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Peter says. “But apparently, I’ve offended you.”

“Of course not,” Drew’s bones ache. He wants Peter to not be looking at him. He wants a drink.

“So why are you getting so mad?”

“I am not mad!” Drew pushes out of the booth and stands above it, glowering down at Peter.

“Is this about the other night?”

Drew doesn’t even know which night he could be referring to. He shouldn’t have spent so much time with Peter, shouldn’t have spent enough nights to not know what night is being referred to; shouldn’t have liked the guy, at all, even a little bit.

“Fuck off,” Drew rolls his eyes. “The goddamn food is frozen, so there’s your news.”

“What?”

“The goddamn food! At Sal’s. It’s frozen, so fuck them and also fuck you, goodbye.”

He turns around and crosses the room. Peter calls after him and Drew ignores him, letting the door slam behind him.

He manages to get halfway across the street before he realizes what a dumbass he’d been.

He toys with the idea of going back to the restaurant and apologizing.

He takes a left and heads to the bar instead.