The weeks slam past Drew in a way that can only happen in a small town. Absolutely nothing happens and somehow, that makes time go by faster.

He spends his mornings and afternoons baking, darting out of the way of the chefs, who actually need to be in there during that time, and trying not to strangle either himself or his boss. Sal, as predicted, is a right asshole and spends eighty percent of their interactions complaining about what Drew’s doing.

Now, Drew’s not above constructive criticism. But being told that “I would have preferred a lemon cheesecake to the apple tarts today” is not necessarily constructive, especially when the criticism is coming from the man who told him to make the damn tarts in the first place.

Drew likes the work, as he always does. He loves baking, and the pay is good enough that if he can keep his mouth shut for a few more weeks, he’ll have enough to maybe make it to California.

Outside of work, the town offers next to nothing. There’s one movie theater with only three screens and a single bar that is adequate at best. He spends most of his nights either streaming TV on his computer or drinking at the bar, trying not to befriend the locals but also not look so pissy that he gets into a bar fight.

It’s a balancing act and by two weeks in, Drew thinks he’s gotten pretty good at it.

Mostly, everyone leaves him alone or only stops for a polite chat after he’s had a few. So when a tall guy stumbles in and starts chatting up the bartender, Drew’s not expecting him to spend half his time just openly staring at him. The bartender’s made his—intentions, or willingness at least, very clear to Drew. But Drew likes fucks that don't have strings attached and in small towns, there are always strings.

So he said no to the sous-chef at work, and he said no to the bartender, and he said no to the other locals that have come up to him throughout his time settling in Poplar. He intends on saying no to this guy, too, when he inevitably gets up the courage to talk to him.

Instead, though, the guy just blushes every time he looks at him, and slaps his friend across the chest when it’s clear the guy is trying to get Drew’s attention.

It’s different.

Drew thinks maybe he likes it better, so halfway through his third drink, he starts staring, too.

He definitely likes it better.

When his third drink is done, Drew decides he likes it too much and he should probably go home before he does something dumb.

He makes it outside and lights a smoke, intending on chain-smoking on his walk home to calm his nerves.

Then he’s hit by a wall from behind and nearly falls to the ground with the breath knocked out of him.

The wall that slammed into him squeaks, letting out an indignant little sound. Drew’s hands shoot out and wrap around the wall, shaking his head to clear it of the fuzz growing there. When he blinks, he realizes it’s not a wall but a man and not just a man but a really, really hot man.

Drew steadies the man that almost plowed him over and then lets his hands linger just a bit longer than necessary.

It’s the same blond guy from before, the one who was staring.

He’s been in this two horse town for long enough now, coming up on three weeks, that he knows he hasn’t seen this man before. Drew met a lot of people, in fast food restaurants, at Sal’s, at the gas station, and bank—he met a lot of people, and he regretted almost every interaction. If he had ever met someone as hot as this guy though, who by now was frozen with his fingers clenched into the material of Drew’s shirt, then he would have remembered.

Drew smirks at the man, the cigarette burning between his lips lolling from the motion.

“Oh!” The man speaks, cheeks tinged red. His eyes fall to the cigarette and, more importantly, Drew’s lips. It makes them spread wider. “Sorry!”

“You nearly knocked me down,” Drew steps back so he can fit his arm between them and remove the cigarette. He flicks it and ashes fall.

The man watches it and lets his gaze snap back up.

He’s got this spiky, short hair and broad shoulders that make Drew absolutely certain he grew up in Kansas. Freckles are on his face and his skin is tanned from the sun but nothing that cries hard outdoor labor.

He’s hot as hell and Drew has half a mind to do something about it.

“I’m Peter Jacobs,” he shoves his hand between them, elbow creasing up when he realizes there’s not enough space.

Drew looks at the offered hand for a few seconds before giving in and shaking it. He lets his thumb glide across the skin of Peter’s knuckles.

“Drew.”

“You’re not from here.”

Drew takes a drag of the cigarette. “What gave it away?”

“Um—well, it’s a small town, we know everyone mostly and I don’t know you so—”

Drew’s eyebrow hitches up. “I was kidding.”

Peter’s face gets redder. “Oh. Right.”

Drew looks him up and down again. Peter fidgets under the gaze but doesn’t walk away.

He clearly left the bar for a reason, and considering how much time passed since Drew left and how he hadn’t noticed that he was being watched when he left, Drew doesn’t think Peter followed him out.

So, presumably, there’s a different reason why Peter’s out in the cold.

He doesn’t move, though.

Drew lifts his hand, offering the cigarette silently.

Peter just cocks his head, frowning.

Drew’s eyes roll up towards the sky. He juts his hand out a little farther. “Take a drag, Peter.”

Peter shakes his head and then freezes. Slowly, so slowly Drew has to push his lips together to keep from laughing, he raises his arm and pinches the cigarette out of Drew’s limp grasp.

Holding it between his thumb and forefinger like a joint, Peter gently parts his lips and sets the cigarette there.

Faintly, he remembers he decided to leave the bar specifically because this was a bad idea. Small town hookups are always a bad idea, and he always regrets them.

Peter’s lips are curled around the end of the cigarette, the cherry bright at the tip, and suddenly, Drew doesn’t give a shit about what a bad idea this is.

Drew crosses his arms and leans against the wall. The brick is cool against his back and he works at schooling his expression as Peter inhales, pulling in the smoke. For a moment, it’s the absolute hottest thing Drew’s ever seen; this clean-cut man with his cigarette between his lips, inhaling from the same nicotine Drew was inhaling from a second before. He’s holding it all wrong and his eyes are wide and too open, but Drew can look past that and see the hollowing of his cheeks and purse of his lips. The filter burns and Peter pulls the offensive item away, letting the smoke out in a cough.

Drew accepts the smoke back when Peter offers it to him. He locks eyes with him and then takes a long drag, as long as he can, before dropping the cigarette and toeing the bud out with his shoe.

Peter doesn't break eye contact. Drew lets the smoke out of his mouth, little rings filling the space between them.

“Who are you?” Drew asks. He pushes himself off the wall and crowds Peter’s space, just a little. He’s had a few beers and from the smell of the exhale that Peter sighs out, he has, too.

In general, Drew doesn’t care for his job or the people he’s met yet, and he doesn’t think Poplar is going to turn into much of anything but a waste of time. But this guy, with his blond hair and wide, pupil-blown eyes—he might just prove to be interesting.

To test his theory, Drew takes another half step forward. Peter inhales sharply but doesn’t back away.

Interesting, indeed.

“I own Amelia’s.”

The name sounds familiar. Drew racks his brain, trying to remember the little shops in the little town.

Peter’s stance sharpens, and for some reason, it makes the connection click in his head.

“The diner?” The small one across the street Drew had almost gone into instead of Sal’s.

“It’s a restaurant,” Peter says, as if it’s a correction.

Drew shrugs and nods. “Okay. I’ve seen it.”

“I bet you have,” Peter mutters.

Drew frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re the competition,” Peter sways into his space and Drew smirks. Peter’s face and neck are turning red, and Drew has the distinct desire to press his tongue against the pink skin.

“I am?”

“The enemy,” Peter adds.

Drew doesn’t really know what they’re talking about. He asks another question just to keep Peter’s lips moving. “And how am I your enemy?”

“I—you’re—I heard you’re the baker at Sal’s. And my restaurant is in competition with Sal’s, and you’re the reason that they’re even doing well and—”

“You sure,” Drew takes another step forward. Their chests are close to touching and he can hear the ragged intake of Peter’s breath much, much better, “that you want to be talking about this?”

He wasn’t going to do this. He likes the way the guy stares too much to be doing this. Drew reminds himself of this again and again, but it gets a little bit weaker each time.

He flickers his eyes up from Peter’s mouth to see his eyes. They’re darker than before and a sharp shiver runs through his spine. He can feel vibrations in his fingertips and his tongue darts out of his mouth just to swipe across his bottom lip. Drew is very, very pleased by Peter’s darkened eyes.

“We’re rivals.”

“Sure,” Drew says and then he closes the space between them.

He wraps one hand around Peter’s neck, the edge of his fingertips toying with the hair there. He lets his other slide down Peter’s arm, curling around his wrist before falling to his waist, clenching there. Peter jolts, body spasming a little bit closer and then their lips are just half a centimeter from touching.

Drew moves his head slightly, lips a little parted and eyes focused on Peter’s expression. He looks dazed, his own mouth absently trailing Drew’s.

Drew’s a second from giving in when Peter closes the space between them instead.

His hands fly up and close around Drew’s jacket, fisting the material. He kisses him, gentler than Drew expected, lips moving slowly. Drew lets him lead the kiss, trying not to press harder than the other man is.

When Peter pulls back, Drew does, too.

Though it wasn’t the most intense kiss Drew ever had, they’re both panting, and Drew can feel white-hot heat inside his stomach, lashing against his muscles and bones. His whole body feels a few good minutes away from erupting.

Peter takes a step back. “I—shouldn’t have done that.”

Drew struggles to tear his gaze away from Peter’s lips. “Is that so?”

“You’re the enemy.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I should go.”

“All right,” Drew swipes his thumb across his bottom lip, pretending to be as uncaring about the decision as he wants to be.

Peter opens his mouth to say something else but, in the end, just turns around and crosses the parking lot in a near run. He makes it to an old pickup truck and climbs in.

Drew watches through the window as Peter slams his head on the steering wheel. The horn honks out a little noise and he straightens up, gaze snapping to Drew.

Drew waves. Peter slams the truck into drive and peels out so fast, Drew starts laughing at him.

He laughs until Peter is out of sight. Then he lights another cigarette and starts walking towards the motel, whistling as he goes.