The day after their movie night, Peter looks for Drew every time the bell on the door rings.

That’s not necessarily unusual—he spent a good portion of the last week doing that, waiting for Drew. What’s unusual is that not seeing him isn’t a disappointment; it’s not him realizing that Drew doesn’t give a shit. It’s him realizing that Drew’s not here yet.

The distinction is astronomically important.

Peter heads back to the kitchen. It’s a slow day and he’d normally be bummed about that, but right now, he’s having a hard time being bummed about anything.

Having the hottest guy he’d ever seen splayed across his couch really did wonders for his mood.

Peter can barely stop himself from whistling as he works on a pie. It won’t be half as good as Drew’s but Amelia’s rarely has desserts all done up—he really should take one out of Sal’s book and hire a baker. Drew’s presence, despite highly uplifting Peter’s personal sex life, has done a number on the town. He thinks everyone might have a sweet tooth now.

Despite trying to reign in his good mood, Damien stares at him blatantly and with an astonished look on his face all morning.

By the time Peter is rolling out dough for the pie, his friend and employee decides he can’t take it anymore. Damien slams a spoon down, splattering sauce on the wall and counter.

“Gotta clean that up, man,” Peter says, barely taking his eyes off the dough. Drew would absolutely laugh at him. He’s following some hand written recipe, for god’s sake.

Damien lets out a strangled huff. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” He frowns at the recipe. It says four tablespoons of baking powder. Surely that’s a mistake. This is the filling.

“What is going on with you?”

Peter finally glances up. “Nothing is going on with me.”

“You’ve been MIA for, like, days—Nick hasn’t seen you at the bar. You haven’t left the house since that night you went to the bar, alone, might I add, as if you couldn’t have asked me or Allison or anyone.”

Peter fidgets. “I just—didn’t think about it.”

“You never do,” Damien sighs. “Is this about Kyle?”

Peter blinks. “What? No!”

“Is it—is something going on with the business?”

“Nothing unusual.”

Damien frowns. “Then what is it? Nothing’s changed and—”

Peter watches as something lights underneath Damien’s skin and he narrows his eyes. “That new guy. That customer that came in the other day, the one you went and sat with. That was weird. Is that what this is about?”

“No.” But it didn’t sound half as forceful or true as the others.

Damien snaps his fingers. “Who is that guy?”

“He’s no one!” Peter turns his focus back to the dough. He rolls it on the table and groans when the texture seems off. “I’ve fucked up this pie.”

“You always fuck up the pie,” Damien says automatically. He grabs the spoon he threw earlier and stirs the sauce bubbling on the stove. “Who the hell is that guy, Pete?”

“He’s just the pastry chef at Sal’s.”

“At Sal’s?” And this time, Peter almost doesn’t blame Damien for the incredulous expression.

“Yeah, he’s the pastry chef at Sal’s. We’ve met a few times, we’re—friendly.”

If Peter focuses hard enough, he can still feel the weight of Drew’s body beneath his. Friendly is oversimplifying it.

“Are you guys, like, dating?”

That’s definitely too far the other end.

He tastes panic, a lot like the kind he had in his throat when Kyle wanted to move in together. The only thing missing is the complete lack of disinterest.

“No,” Peter forces out. “We’re just—friendly.”

“Friendly,” Damien rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“What?” He can feel the panic start to recede but it leaves him feeling a bit raw. He rushes to cover it with a different feeling and the first one he manages to grasp at is anger. “What, I can’t be friendly?”

“Of course you can,” Damien hedges. “Are you, like, trying to get dirt on Sal’s for this place or something?”

Yes, actually. But only kind of and accidentally.

“No.”

“And you’re not dating him? So—”

“Just because I’m gay and I’m single doesn’t mean I can’t have a male friend! Being gay and single doesn’t mean I have to hook up with every other gay and single guy! You don’t see Nick and I at each other.”

Damien drops the spoon again. “Jesus, man, yeah. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Peter knows that. He lets his hackles raise higher instead of giving in to the inevitable decline of embarrassment. “Not everything I do and everyone I speak to has to have some greater meaning. Romantically or business. I’m just—”

“Being friendly,” Damien says for him. “I got it.”

“Okay.” Peter sniffs and puts the dough on the pie pan. It cracks in the middle and he eases the pieces of crust back together. “I’m just saying.”

“I gotcha, Boss Man.”

They work in quiet for a while until too much guilt creeps inside his chest.

“Maybe we could all get together. Nick’s birthday is coming up. We could throw him a small party or something? Just the crew?” The crew being their few friends and significant others, accumulated over the past two decades of living in a small town.

Damien looks up from the pasta he’s boiling. “Yeah, that sounds good, man.”

“Good.” He’s relieved. Now that he’s calmed a bit and Damien’s mentioned it, it has been quite a while since he actually spent any real time with his friends.

“Did you hear about Nick’s date?”

Peter almost drops the sugar he’s holding. “Our Nick went on a date? Are you kidding me?”

“Nope!” Damien laughs. “Ash set him up. Apparently one of her co-workers is cute and he finally decided he’d give in to her pestering.”

Ash works at their local bank and is one of the funniest, pushiest people Peter has ever met. He almost feels bad for the guy, whoever he is, if he was on the receiving end of her matchmaking. Peter had been there one too many times.

“How did it go?”

Damien whistles. “Guy’s baggage. Nick says he went so quiet thinking at one point that when he finally did speak, Nick was so surprised that he almost pissed himself.”

Peter laughs. “Oh, man, that’s rough.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Damien agrees. “but Nick thought he was nice. Apparently, there’s hope for a date two.”

“Well, Nick always did like a challenge.”

“You say that like you don’t get bored of everything and everyone.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Hand me one of those wooden spoons,” Damien tossed it. “You say that as if I don’t own the same restaurant I spent my whole life in. I don’t get bored of everything. I didn’t get bored of you.”

Damien puts a hand over his heart. “Ah, such sweet nothings.”

They both laugh and Peter forgets why he was so angry earlier. He had a cute guy on his couch and his friends in his kitchen and he’s doing well.

So what if he perks a little every time the door opens, that’s his own business.

—

The pie turns out borderline mediocre. It’s on the cusp of being pretty good but misses it by half a scoop of sugar, he thinks.

He saves a piece, wrapping it in plastic wrap and shoving it into the fridge. If Drew stops by, he’ll have him taste it and tell him for sure.

Peter grabs a tray of sandwiches he’d put together and goes to the booth in the corner at the front of the restaurant. Damien and Allison are already there, speaking quietly to themselves. When he sets the tray down, both their head snap up.

“Boss Man!” Allison slaps her palms on the table before reaching for a sandwich. “Thanks!”

“Sure,” he says, sliding into the empty side of the booth. He hadn’t really planned on keeping them past close, but they’d both mentioned they were hungry and Peter still felt a little guilty for being so out of it the last few days.

He grabs his own sandwich and takes a bite. His mom’s chicken salad recipe might be one of his favorites; it rarely gets ordered but when he has the opportunity to break it out, he always tastes home a little more clearly.

Damien eats two before he leans forward, chin on his fist. “So, Peter.”

“So, Peter.” Allison parrots.

Peter sets the sandwich down. “Yes?”

“We’re just curious,” Allison says, setting her own half finished sandwich on the tray. She wipes her hands on a napkin and looks on the verge of laughing.

“About what?” Peter sits back.

Damien and Allison exchange a grin. “Well,” Allison continues, “Damien was telling me that you’ve spent some—time—with that cute new baker from Sal’s.”

Peter flushes. “How do you know he’s cute?”

Damien bursts into a chuckle while Allison struggles to keep a straight face. “He came in the other day, ordered a burger.”

Peter wants to slam his head on the table. “Oh, right.”

“Oh, right.” Damien laughs again.

“Shut up,” Peter jabs a finger at them. “I didn’t say he was cute!”

“You kind of did.”

“I will fire you both,” he threatens.

Its emptiness doesn’t do much damage. Allison rolls her eyes. “Sure you will.”

“Tell us about it,” Damien says. “We’re off duty. This is friend talk.”

And, true, the place has been closed for thirty minutes and he does kind of owe it to them. Reaffirm their friendship after a few weeks of him being MIA.

But, still. There’s nothing to tell.

“I don’t know anything,” Peter says. He grabs his food again and takes another bite. He chews it slowly but they just silently wait for him to swallow. “I don’t!”

“So you haven’t been hanging out with him?” Allison asks.

Peter takes another bite of sandwich.

“Oh, come on!” Damien whines out.

Peter groans. “Ugh, fine. We have—on occasion!—hung out.”

Allison claps her hands together. “Ooh. Do you like him?”

Damien drops his sandwich. “Oh, no. We’re not allowed to ask him.”

“Why?” Allison furrows her brows.

“He ranted at me. He thinks I was being homophobic.”

Peter winces. “Well, no. I just don’t like the idea that I can only hang out with guys if I’m interested in them.”

Allison nods. “Plus we don’t even know if Drew is gay.”

Peter’s face burns. He’s got a pretty good idea.

“That’s a good point, Al—” Damien cuts off when he glances at Peter. His eyes widen and he thrusts a finger in the air, pointing accusingly at him. “Hey! What’s that blush for?”

“Blush? You’re blushing! Do you know if—”

The door creaks open and the bell rings an arrival. All three heads swivel towards the door.

“Drew!” Peter creaks the name out at such an awkward, high volume that both his friends momentarily tear their gaze from the incomer to gape at him instead. But then their heads swivel back and Peter would really much rather slide to the floor and crawl out than deal with whatever is about to happen.

At his outburst, Drew stopped in his tracks. His body freezes, one hand curled around the edge of the door. He looks between them, letting his gaze settle on Peter.

“Peter,” he nods his head, letting the door drop from his hand and slam behind him. Peter jumps when the bang resonates through the restaurant.

“Hi!” Allison interjects, slapping at Damien to get him to leave the booth so she can slide past him. She moves quickly, a little pixie flying through the small space until she’s half a foot away from Drew, damn near bouncing where she stands. “I’m Allison!”

Drew regards her. “We’ve met.”

She’s not deterred. “Not in quite the right context. That was Allison, the waitress. This is Allison, the friend.”

“Of who?” But even as he asks, Drew is sliding another glance towards Peter.

Allison nudges Damien, who jolts and shoots his hand out. “Damien. Friend and cook.”

Drew’s face pinches but he shakes Damien’s hand. Peter looks for any signs of annoyance or budding hatred in his expression, but outside of general discomfort, Drew doesn’t seem too upset.

At least, Peter really hopes he’s not too upset.

“I’m Drew,” he says, offering to shake Allison’s hand next. She jumps a little, face erupting in a grin.

“And how do you know our Peter?” Damien asks, crossing his arms and leaning back. It exposes Peter a bit more clearly to the conversation, making a circle, and he scrambles to stand when he realizes he’s the only one still sitting.

“Just a friend—”

“The spy.”

They both answer at the same time. Drew laughs.

Damien and Allison look between them, waiting for an explanation. Neither offer one.

After a minute of silence, they both jolt as if pinched. “We should get going!”

“Yeah,” Allison dives towards the booth, grabbing her jacket and purse. “Going to go—sleep, or something.”

“Yeah, you know us. So tired.”

Peter blinks at them.

“See you tomorrow, Boss Man! Great to see you, Drew.”

Drew nods at them, stepping aside when they start to rush at the door.

They’re gone before Peter remembers to say goodbye.

When the door closes behind them, Drew takes a step towards Peter. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Peter’s shoulders drop a little, the tension easing out of his muscles. “Why are you here?”

Drew’s eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “I can leave.”

“No!” He clears his throat. “I just meant, I wasn’t expecting you.”

Drew doesn’t say anything. Peter scratches at a sore spot behind his ear.

“I—want a sandwich? We were just eating.” He gestures towards the booth.

Drew shrugs and slides in, grabbing one of the sandwiches. He takes a bite and a small, almost imperceptible sigh falls from his mouth. Peter’s chest feels fuller.

“This is good,” he says around his second bite.

Peter sits back down, across from Drew. He picks up his water, sipping from it.

“How was work?” Peter props his elbow on the table, leaning his chin on his fist.

Drew swallows. “Fine,” he grumbles, looking down at the table.

“What?” Peter asks, cocking his head.

Drew shrugs. “Sal’s just an asshole. I don’t like working for him.”

“You’re not,” Peter says. Drew raises an eyebrow and he backtracks. “I mean, you are. But also, you’re working for me.”

“Ah, as your spy.”

“Exactly,” Peter grins. “And, of course, the baking lessons.”

“We just made brownies,” Drew points out.

Peter shrugs. “They were really good.”

Drew leans forward across the table, smirking. “Not my favorite part of the evening.”

Peter’s face burns and his voice sounds a little like he’s gargling asphalt, but he manages to get out, “Me, too.”

Drew’s answering grin is bright enough that Peter’s okay with how choked he sounded.

“Oh!” Peter snaps his fingers, sitting straighter. “I made a pie!”

Drew’s lips purse. He stares, quietly, for a second before shaking his head. “Okay.”

“Will you tell me what I did wrong?”

His brows furrow. “Did you do something wrong?”

“Maybe?” Peter shrugs. “I’m not a very good baker. The pie’s fine but—”

Drew leans backwards, folding his hands together behind his head. “Nothing like my desserts.”

Peter laughs. “Yes, exactly.”

Drew shakes his head again, a small smile playing at his lips. “Okay. Bring me this second-class pie.”

Peter grins and extracts himself from the booth, darting to the kitchen. He hesitates with the pie, looking at the microwave, before deciding to just let Drew taste it cold. He doesn’t want to be scolded a second time in as many days about microwaving desserts.

He grabs a second glass of water and carries both dishes back to the booth, carefully setting both in front of Drew.

Drew grabs the water and takes a long pull. His hair’s down today, curls framing his shoulders and neck, and Peter watches the way Drew’s throat works around the swallow with acute fascination.

“Here,” his own throat feels dry and he sits down quickly. “Try this.”

Drew glances at the pie, pinching the crust. It crumbles between the pads of his fingers and he raises his hand, licking the crumbs.

He picks up the fork, severing off a large chunk of the pie. His mouth closes around it and he chews slowly, head cocked.

Peter likes him like this. He holds himself differently, the way he did when he was in the kitchen the other night baking brownies. It’s not more confident, necessarily; Drew doesn’t lack confidence in any area of his life, Peter was pretty sure. But it was like he wasn’t holding himself up on purpose—he was just existing, pure and simple, when his mind was preoccupied with the food.

“You really do love it, don’t you?” Peter’s as surprised by the question as he is by the way Drew answers it almost immediately. “Baking.”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”

“Since you were seventeen,” Peter says.

Drew lifts his fork in a mock salute and takes another bite.

Peter feels questions underneath his skin like an itch “Who taught you?”

His face hardens, just a little. “I taught myself.”

“That’s a young age to teach yourself,” Peter comments.

Drew shrugs. “I liked baking. And a lot of places let you work overnights if you’re the baker. It was—convenient.”

“Convenient?”

“For the life I wanted. Want. Whatever.”

“Right,” Peter watches as Drew takes the last bite of pie. He’s eaten the whole thing and not commented once and Peter is pretty sure he’s going to really lay into him.

He wants to hear Drew talk in that way he did the other night, when he was showing him how to make those brownies. The passion he keeps beneath the surface of his words is enticing and Peter sways with an effort to keep his anticipation quiet.

“This is good,” Drew says. Peter blinks at him, disbelieving, until Drew cracks a smile. “Not the best. But better than I thought it would be.”

Peter almost laughs; he catches it in his throat and shoots out a huff and glare instead. “Oh, thanks.”

Drew remains unbothered. “Just saying.”

“Well, Teach. Give me some advice.” Peter is half a second away from grinning.

Drew looks like he might be, too. “Why did you bake this?”

“Had extra time,” Peter shrugs. “Thought you could give me some pointers.”

“Did you follow a recipe?”

“Sort of. Yes.”

“Hmm,” he scrapes the fork against the plate before setting it down. “You’ll get better. Your instincts told you this wasn’t perfect and eventually, they’ll help you narrow down why.”

“But you won’t tell me,” Peter surmises.

Drew winks. “What’s the fun in that?”

Peter thinks just about anything would be fun with Drew.

The other man looks at his watch and sighs. “I’ve got to go. I’m working early tomorrow because Sal’s opening earlier now.”

“He’s extended the hours?” Peter swallows. “You’re supposed to be getting me dirt.”

“Patience,” Drew says. “A good spy takes his time.”

“Sure, sure,” disappointment, heavy like lead, sits in his stomach. His restaurant is screwed if Sal’s can be extending its hours already. “Will you stop by again?”

Drew leans closer, tongue flickering out of his mouth to swipe across his bottom lip. “Do you want me to?”

Peter answers much too quickly. “Yes.”

Drew’s eyes drop down to Peter’s mouth and he holds his gaze there until he stands. “Okay, then.”

“Okay, then.” Peter stands, too, and walks Drew to the door. He gives himself permission to follow the lines of Drew’s muscles down his back and legs before darting his eyes back up when Drew turns around.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette, the long stick a dull white with a dark brown base. He toys with it, using his fingers to pull it between the digits. Peter’s vision narrows when he follows the cigarette up as it’s gently placed between his lips.

Peter wrenches the door open, ignoring the bell.

Drew laughs, grabbing the cigarette as his head falls back. His hair shifts behind his shoulders and Peter is equally trapped between pulling him back in by his curls or shoving him out of the door and locking it.

He was going to impulse decide when Drew takes a step backwards, then another. He backs out onto the sidewalk and pulls out his lighter, balancing the cigarette between his lips again as he lights it.

Peter watches until Drew’s spun around; then he keeps watching until he’s far out of sight.

Peter leans his forehead against the edge of the door. He’s so, so gone.