Drew makes it to work only thirty minutes late, which he considers to be a huge win since he had to go home and wash the stink of binge drinking off of him before hightailing it back to the strip of restaurants.

He sneaks in through the back door he found that first day and grabs his apron, tying it around his waist.

Sal storms in the kitchen before he can even get the things he prepped yesterday.

“Drew!” Sal comes over to him, glaring. It’s not particularly harsh and he's not, like, twirling his mustache or anything, so Drew regards him cooly.

“Yeah?” He gets the prepped breads out and starts heating the oven. They’ll rise nicely. He likes the way they’re looking and he thinks the batch will turn out better than he thought.

“You were late.”

Drew glances up before going back to work. “Yeah, sorry. Here now.”

“You aren't going to apologize?” Sal demands.

Drew counts to five. “I just did.”

“You should be thankful for this job,” Sal says. “I took a chance on you.”

“Please,” Drew scoffs. “We both know I’m the only reason people are still coming here.” He bites his tongue to keep from saying anything more.

Sal’s face turns red, so fast Drew becomes momentarily worried for him. “I should fire you right now!”

Drew steps away from the prep table, crossing his arms. “Do it then.”

Sal splutters, the vein in his forehead throbbing. He turns on his heel and storms out of the kitchen, yelling behind him: “You’re on thin ice, Drew!”

Don and the other kitchen staff stare at him with wide eyes. Drew ignores it and goes back to work.

He hates this job. He should leave. But he needs to save up enough and—

And what? Leave and go to California like he’s planned?

Drew’s hands freeze over the bread.

He doesn’t want to leave Poplar.

He doesn’t know what happened or when it happened or if it’s still currently happening but somehow, someway, Drew doesn’t want to leave this small, dumbass town.

And he’s got three guesses why but he only needs one.

His heart hammers in his chest and his pulse speeds so quickly he feels a little dizzy.

Drew’s spent his whole life leaving places. He left home and he never looked back; he never looks back. He’s cultivated his entire life around the simple ideology that leaving is the best and that there are more places to be seen than he can ever see so he might as well try. He’s told himself, and others, his whole life that he’d keep going somewhere new because there was never any one place better than another.

It can’t be because of Peter. He can’t want to stay here because he has a goddamn crush, he’s not that dumb or simple or romantic.

He looks around the kitchen; his vision seems blurry and no one is paying him any mind. Faintly, he hopes his freak out is as internal as he thinks it is.

He’s been here two months, maybe coming up on three, and he should be ready to leave. He should be bored of the dumb town and bored of the dumb people and he is.

Except he doesn’t really want to leave when Peter still tastes like bright, sharp emotion on his tongue and he wants to learn how to make the patty melt. And he’s pretty sure Rita’s birthday is coming up and he kind of cares about that, he thinks.

And last night, he faintly remembers talking to the bartender and liking the way the guy told jokes. And he liked the way that the people in the bar waved to him and he’s starting to actually pay attention to Martha when he drops off his weekly rent and holy fucking shit, he doesn’t know when it happened, but Drew thinks maybe he’s starting to become part of the community.

He slams his hands on the table. The ping of pain on his palms helps a little but he still feels like he’s drowning in his thoughts.

He wants to stay in Poplar.

Holy shit, he should leave tonight.

He shuts off his thoughts, throwing himself into work. He finishes the things he was prepared to make and then foregoes his break, working on the most intricate cake he can think of. The decorations take forever to make, carefully pulling at homemade fondant with the concentration that requires every bit of his mind.

He works and works, taking breaks from the cake when it requires setting and working on the prep stuff for the morning. Twice, Don tries to get him to go on lunch and a few times Rita and Tim invite him out for various social events, seeing his clear panic across the room.

Drew ignores them. He doesn’t need them. He doesn’t like them. He doesn’t like this town.

He likes new things and he likes baking. So he’ll make this new cake and he’ll remind himself why he travels and he’ll get in the junker as soon as he can and leave Kansas in the rearview.

Leave Peter in the rearview.

Holy shit, he likes Peter.

He drops the pan, watching as buttermilk frosting goes everywhere, splaying across the floor and bottom cabinets. His hands shake and Drew feels a second away from passing out.

He likes Peter.

He likes him and he’s such, such a dumbass.

“Dude,” Tim comes over, handing him a rag. They both start to clean up the mess. “You are out of it today.”

“Hungover,” Drew says. He wipes at the frosting but it just spreads it around, getting messier and messier the more Drew touches it.

Tim hums and grabs both rags, going to rinse them out. He returns with them when they’re cleaned. They both scrub again.

Drew wants to just lay on the floor. He’s dizzy and stupid.

“Almost done with your shift, at least,” Tim says when they finish. He smiles at Drew, something genuine and friendly and Drew feels ill.

“Yeah, thanks,” he pushes himself up and nods at Tim. He remakes the frosting and slathers it on the cooled cake. Then he shuts out the rest of the kitchen and carefully lays the fondant over the icing.

He can’t keep the thoughts at bay for too long.

He thinks about what Rita and Tim were saying, about Peter and his ex. He doesn’t know if it was accurate and he doesn’t care except that maybe he kind of does.

He doesn’t actually know if Peter likes him. He didn’t even realize that he likes Peter until a few hours ago so he thinks its fair that he doesn’t know where Peter stands on the situation. Peter is attracted to him, Drew knows that. He knows that Peter doesn’t mind him in that way. But Drew’s always the one to seek Peter out, not the other way around. He’s always the one to go to Amelia’s. He’s the one to start things between them, time after time, and—

Holy shit, Drew likes Peter but Peter doesn’t like him back.

The realization hits him over the head, hard, twice as hard as his much nicer realization hit him last time.

Peter doesn’t like him like that and he doesn’t want to leave Poplar because of him and holy shit, Drew is so screwed.

—

He ends the workday later than usual, trying to finish up the cake and the prep work for tomorrow. Sal is annoyed with him all day until he tries a slice of the lemon-brandy cake and shuts up pretty fast. Drew rolls his eyes and leaves right after.

He can feel the pinpricks of embarrassment on the back of his neck as he leaves Sal’s, his two awful realizations still pitting against one another and reminding him how much of a giant dumbass he is.

He can’t believe he let himself like Peter. Not that there’s anything wrong with Peter. Well, sure, the man blushes constantly—he can barely flirt before turning into a tomato. And, yes, technically speaking he doesn’t actually like Drew and he is a little bit using him as a spy for the business. He’s also a pretty terrible baker. And Drew doesn’t really even know that much about him.

But he does know that Peter makes great savory food and the pancakes this morning were some of the best things he’s ever tasted. And Peter has a really nice laugh, one that sounds like it’s from his gut every time and like he’s always laughing to include you in on the joke. He has really nice eyes and he gives probably the best blow jobs Drew has ever had. And he’s nice and hot and—

Drew slams his head into his hands. He scrubs at his eyes with the base of his palms and tries not to notice how hot his cheeks are getting.

He briefly considers the idea of just running. Just getting into his truck and leaving it all behind.

Instead, he crosses the street and goes into Amelia’s.

It’s a Sunday and they’re already closing so he sits himself at the counter, trying not to get in the way.

Allison waves at him from the corner she’s at with her broom. “Do you want anything?”

He shakes his head and waves her off. “No, thanks, Allison.”

She grins. “Just here for the company?”

His ears do not burn. “Something like that.”

She laughs and he tries really hard not to blush harder.

“Allison! Can you do inventory some time next week, we keep running out of those to go—Drew!” Peter stumbles when he looks up from his notepad, hand slamming on the counter to catch himself. His face brightens pink and Drew’s, goddammit, follows suit.

“I’ll go take a look now,” Allison says, setting the broom against the wall. She shoots Drew a wink and he feels fucking flustered.

He never should have realized he had a crush.

“Drew,” Peter says again. Drew doesn’t try to stop the smile that quirks his lips up. Peter’s wearing a blue flannel, buttoned up to his chest where a white v-neck peaks out. The sleeves are rolled up, showing off his forearms in such a wonderful way. His jeans are worn light and he shuffles a little, looking down before his gaze grabs Drew’s.

“Peter,” Drew leans forward just a bit.

He isn’t sure which one of them kisses the other. One second, he’s thinking about it, and the next, their lips are gently brushing in that same, unexpected way that they had this morning when they said goodbye.

“I didn’t think you’d stop by tonight,” Peter pulls away and sits on the stool next to Drew. Their knees bump until Drew separates his and lets one of Peter’s between. Their hands are both on their laps and Drew can feel his fingertips burning, itching, yearning.

He swallows. “I could leave.”

“Don’t,” Peter says. He clears his throat. “I mean, you can, of course, obviously, but—”

“I won’t.” Drew says.

Peter smiles. It’s a little crooked and shows his teeth.

“How was work?”

Drew shrugs. “Okay. I made a lemon brandy cake.”

“Mhmm,” Peter grins. “ Was that because of my vanilla brandy pancakes?”

Drew’s eyes widen and he snaps his finger. “That’s what it was!”

Peter laughs. “Yes. My mom’s recipe.”

Drew’s hands twitch. He smooths them against his jeans. “Most of your stuff are her recipes?”

“Yeah, mostly,” Peter says. “She had this place basically my whole life. Learning the recipes wasn’t necessarily difficult.”

Drew nods. “I get that.”

“Yeah?” Peter cocks his head.

Drew’s throat closes. With decided effort, he reopens it. “My grandma kinda raised me. She—she was a good woman, you know, hard, strict, but she was good.”

“She taught you how to bake?” Peter asks it softly, as if it’s too dangerous to be thrown out carelessly.

Drew answers just as carefully. “In a way. I taught myself when she—she was old, you know, and her mind kinda went. But she used to love to bake and when she had better days, the house smelled like cookies or whatever.”

Drew had never told anyone that.

He doesn’t know if he feels heavier or lighter; he just knows it’s different.

“What happened?” Peter’s fingers close around his and Drew jolts, surprised. He looks down as Peter winds their fingers together and his heart is beating so fast, Drew’s sure that Peter can feel it from his hand.

“She died,” Drew tells him. “When I was seventeen. Old enough to be on my own then.”

Peter frowns. “Still young.”

He rolls his eyes, but it lacks the usual bravado he has. He can feel how much weaker it is and see how much more softly it lands by the expression Peter wears.

“And you’ve been on the road ever since?” Peter presses, rubbing his thumb across the top of Drew’s hand.

It’s soothing. “It’s not some tragic fucking backstory, though,” he says, shoulders straightening. “It’s just, why would I stick around there, you know? It was a dumb town and there was no reason.”

“No reason to stay,” Peter mutters. “Are you looking for a reason?”

I’ve found one.

Drew’s heart stops.

“No,” he gets out from his closing throat. He starts to pull his hand away. “I should go—”

“Don’t,” Peter repeats his command from earlier. And like earlier, Drew complies. Peter smiles small when Drew settles again. He squeezes Drew’s hand. “Want to go upstairs?”

Drew suddenly becomes acutely aware that they’re not alone. Allison and, presumably, Damien are just a few feet away in the kitchen and Drew’s out here baring his fucking heart and his cheeks feel so hot, he could fry an egg on them.

“Yes,” he agrees quickly, standing up. He clears his throat and runs his hands through his hair, fingers scraping against his scalp and getting caught in the strands.

Peter gestures towards the stairs. “I’ll go tell Dam to lock up.”

Drew nods and climbs the now familiar route up to Peter’s apartment, shoving at the door hard enough so it’ll crack open.

He lets himself inside and goes to the couch, toeing off his shoes and setting them next to the edge of the coffee table. He gets himself a bottle of water from the fridge.

He doesn’t really know why he came here tonight except that he wanted to, which is fine, except that Drew knows that he likes Peter and he knows that Peter doesn’t like him and that’s okay. He just needs to keep a goddamn lid on his emotions and not say anything stupid.

He might sort of like Peter a little bit more than he is supposed to, but it doesn’t mean anything, and he doesn’t want to fuck up this—friendship or whatever it is, by being an idiot. So he needs to just shut up and stop thinking so hard.

The door cracks open and Peter comes inside. He shoots Drew a brilliant smile and takes off his own shoes. He stretches, arms high above his head, and it reveals a strip of his skin that is a bit paler than the rest of him.

Drew’s mouth dries and he realizes that there’s one really good way to keep his mouth too busy to blurt out any words.

Without any more preamble, Drew crosses the room and slides his hands into Peter’s hair, tugging him hard towards him. Their lips crash together.

Kissing Peter is its own uniquely wonderful experience. It slams into him in a thousand ways, lighting his nerves on fire. The way that he gasps out a little surprised breath, the way his fingers tremble when they press against his skin, the hard bite of his teeth against Drew’s bottom lip—every bit of kissing Peter sends Drew into a frenzy.

When Peter slips his hands underneath Drew’s shirt, it’s really no wonder that Drew fell for him.

His fingers are long and deft, sliding up and down his back, with just a hint of nail. It makes Drew gasp and when he does, Peter takes advantage, turning and pushing against Drew’s chest until he slams into the door. It’s hard and makes Drew groan even louder.

“Holy shit,” he lets out in a trembling breath when Peter moves away from his mouth to suck brushing kisses on his neck and collarbone. Each hard suck has Drew grinding his hips and tightening his grip in Peter’s hair. He lets one hand fall to Peter’s shoulder, fingernails digging into the muscle there when Peter takes the skin at the hollow between his collarbones between his teeth.

It’s delicious and painful and Drew can’t think about anything, let alone say anything he shouldn’t be saying.

He tugs at Peter’s hair until he raises his head and Drew freezes, just staring. Peter’s lips are bright red and shiny, parted with his tongue just ever so slightly peeking out. His pupils are blown wide and his chest is rising and falling quickly as he sucks in air.

They kiss like it’s important, like one of them will win and the only way to keep the other from drowning is to pull him up by his lips. They bite and suck on each other’s lips and Drew is wild with need by the time they end up crashing onto the floor, the carpet scraping against his back where his t-shirt rode up.

The idea that Drew ever went a day without Peter’s lips on him is laughable now.

He kisses him harder just to prove it.