Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We don’t do pumpkin spice,” Jack says flatly.

Bitty’s mouth falls open a little. “But — it’s fall! It’s what the people want! Aren’t you losing business to every other coffee shop between August and November?”

“No.” Jack swipes a molecule of ground coffee Bitty can’t even see from the butcher block counter. “We sell specialty coffee. If people want pumpkin spice, they go somewhere else.”

Bitty’s romantic daydreams of cinnamon-and-nutmeg-scented fall afternoons staring out of Zimmermann’s big front windows deflate in a gust of cold air. When Jack introduced himself ten minutes ago, he’d only fueled those daydreams — the sweet agony of a cute coworker crush, some eye candy to make slow shifts pass faster — but now, in front of Bitty with his strong, thick arms crossed over his soft, thick middle, he just seems like a taunt.

Bitty follows Jack’s lead and ties on an apron, then washes his hands. He tries very hard not to notice while he can loop his apron strings all the way around and lace them in front, Jack can’t. 

“Have you thought about selling pastries?” he ventures as Jack silently fills cold brew pitchers and counts jugs of milk in the fridge, noting down the totals with a pen he pulls from the apron pocket that sits below the overhang of his belly. He doesn’t acknowledge that Bitty has spoken, so Bitty rushes on nervously, “I just think people like to have something sweet with their coffee, and this is really the only high-end place in the neighborhood if you’re looking for —”

Jack’s cold blue eyes snap onto him instantly. “What’s your name? Bittle?” Bitty gulps, nods. “No, Bittle. Come on. We open in half an hour and you’re wasting time.”

“You can call me Bitty,” he ventures, grabbing a rag and wiping up some water he’d spilled earlier filling the cold brew jugs. “Everyone does.”

Jack doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns away to pour beans into the grinder’s hopper, and Bitty’s teeth find his lower lip. He is definitely tanking his first shift. Ugh. The older man he’d interviewed with had been so nice! So easygoing and fatherly, with a comforting accent that Bitty thought was Canadian but wasn’t quite sure. He sure had neglected to mention that the shift manager here was such a pill.

Tomorrow he’ll bring pie. That’ll sweeten things up. 

—

Jack does not touch the hand pies the next day or the next, which means that Bitty’s got a shitty attitude for most of the week. Nobody passes up his pies! It’s — well, it’s impolite, for starters, and more than that it’s bad taste. How dare Jack be so dang cute when he clearly lacks good judgment?! 

Except then, half an hour before the end of Bitty’s mid-morning shift on Friday, Jack says abruptly, “I’m taking a break. Can you handle things alone for a few minutes?”

Bitty bobs his head. “Of course! No problem. Um, can I text you if I have any questions?”

Jack sighs. “If you have to. You have my number from training?”

Bitty bobs his head faster. He sure does, and it’s burning a hole in his pocket. 

“ D’accord ,” says Jack, clocking out on the register. The word rings a faint bell in the back of Bitty’s brain — high school French, maybe? Extremely hot if so. 

He handles a handful of customers on his own while Jack’s gone — mostly young professionals dressed in expensive-looking neutrals — and even manages to get a decent tip when he’s able to calm a harried parent’s wailing infant by wiggling his eyebrows. He doesn’t break anything, doesn’t ring anyone up egregiously wrong, doesn’t even spill more than a few drops of freshly brewed dark roast. When Jack reappears from his break, the shop is still standing and there are even a few satisfied customers poking at emails at the cafe tables. None of which explains how surly Jack looks as he clocks back in.

“I think I did okay!” Bitty babbles, fixing himself a to-go cup of cold brew and dumping in plenty of cream and sugar. “Nothing blew up, obviously, and I reset the brew cycle like you showed me, and I even remembered to use a separate frother for the nut milk!”

Jack scowls. 

“Do you want me to make you something before I go?” Bitty goes on, unable to stop. “I could practice some of the harder stuff! Or I could try the espresso machine again?”

“I’m fine,” says Jack tersely, and he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t have to for the rest of Bitty’s shift. When his belly settles on the counter as he pulls espresso shots, he repositions roughly and sucks in. But out of the corner of his eye, Bitty notices him palming his gut under the edge of the counter. He’s probably starving. Jack’s been here since the shop opened at six, and he hasn’t even had a cup of coffee, for heaven’s sake! 

But when he goes to the back of house to get his things, there are only twelve hand pies left on the plate — and there were sixteen when he packed it up this morning.

Well, well. Maybe someone likes pumpkin spice after all.

Chapter Text

Jack’s pants are getting tight, and it’s all Bittle’s fault. He has to unbutton them after his break, grateful for the extra camouflage of his apron. He had been so good until Bittle showed up with his sweet blond cowlick and his entrancing Southern drawl and his devastatingly delicious little pies. 

Look, Jack has worked in and around food service for most of his life. His dad is practically Tim Horton, if Tim Horton was more sophisticated and was really into fair-trade, single-origin coffee. He knows that the only way to make food taste that good is to add an unholy amount of butter. 

He’d been doing so well at restricting less, which is the part that really sucks. Since his therapist, George, went on maternity leave three months ago, he’s backslid from a tenuous recovery back into overanalyzing his body and what he’s putting into it. Every time he looks at the plate of pies in the back of house, he finds himself doing the mental math: if he eats one, he’ll have a salad for lunch. If he eats two, he’ll have a small salad for lunch. If he eats three or more, he doesn’t need lunch because he’ll have already eaten too much. George would not condone this kind of thinking, but she’s still out for another three weeks, so it’s just Jack against his stupid brain and the world.

His stomach growls under his snug logo t-shirt. He needs to size up, but he’s been putting it off in hopes that if he waits long enough, he’ll drop some weight and he won’t need to add an extra X after all. So far he just keeps catching his reflection in the elegant iron-framed mirror across the cafe and noticing how the crimson fabric pulls across his broad back, how it gets folded into what’s starting to be a(nother) roll at his sides. 

Bittle glows in his stupid crimson shirt. It makes his cheeks pinker, his eyes browner, his skin brighter, like a perfect scoop of neapolitan ice cream. It makes Jack hungry to look at him, no matter how much he tells himself it’s just association. It’s just how sometimes they brush past each other behind the counter and he catches the smell of fruit and pastry wafting off him, how just the sight of him makes Jack want . Want to touch, want to eat, want to fill up some emptiness inside himself with sugar and fat.

Man, he has got to get back to therapy.

He tried not to let himself count how many pies he ate today, but he can feel in his gut that it was too many. It’s always too many, now, and he knows Bittle’s crunching the numbers from the way he always smiles more coming out of the back of house after a shift. Jack tries not to let himself think about that, either.

Maybe Bittle’s a witch. That would explain a lot.

Though right now, he doesn’t exactly look it. He’s steaming milk for a latte, standing as far back as he possibly can while still exposing the milk to any heat. He got a nasty burn on his hand from the steamer wand in his first week and hasn’t trusted the thing since. It would almost be cute if it didn’t make it basically impossible for Jack to squeeze by in the space left over.

Unfortunately, the register and the stacks of hot cups are on the other side of the counter, beyond Bittle and the steamer and the remnants of Jack’s dignity, and there’s a gaggle of scrubbed-up medical students approaching with caffeine in their sights, and there is no way Bittle is going to be finished steaming that milk by the time they’re ready to order. This kind of prescience is what makes Jack an excellent barista: he can see ten steps ahead and plan his moves well in advance, so he’s never scrambling when the moment comes. It also gives him a lot of time to worry.

He grits his teeth. It’s so much worse that it’s medical students, somehow. They’re all so — small. They can’t be much younger than Jack himself, but — maybe unsurprisingly, given how Jack’s doctor talked about his weight at his last physical — they all look like they run twenty miles every morning and eschew anything with calories.

Which is especially unfair, because Jack runs every morning, too. His body just wants him to be fat. And so, apparently, does Eric Bittle.

He takes a deep breath and eyes the space between Bittle’s slight, lithe body and the counter. Bittle probably never has to think about this. He can probably fit in anywhere, and no one ever thinks it’s weird or tells him he’s obsessed with food or that it’s no wonder he looks the way he does when he starts yapping about desserts.

Jack grits his teeth. “Excuse me,” he says softly, but Bittle doesn’t hear him over the shriek of the steamer. “Excuse me,” he tries again, louder, just as the bell at the front door dings and the medical students cluster in, chattering loudly, and when Bittle still doesn’t reply, he squeezes himself between him and the counter.

Bittle freezes, which is somehow worse than anything else. Jack’s face starts to burn. Although his apron hasn’t moved, he feels like his unbuttoned pants must be on display for the everyone in the shop to see, for the entire city to gawk at through the tall front windows, branding him as too big, too wide. The medical students haven’t so much as glanced in his direction, but Bittle, clutching the metal steamer cup and a coffee-stained rag, is staring right at him.

“Jack?” he says, and it might as well just be the two of them on the planet. 

Jack feels like a cornered dog, ready to snap, to sink his teeth into Bittle just for asking. Anything would be better than having to be vulnerable about this.

“Don’t,” he grinds out, and he makes the coffees for the med students. He rings them up, he smiles as politely as he can. Bittle — small, shining, perfect Bittle — presses himself against the back counter as Jack moves back and forth, aching.

—

Bittle leaves without a word when his shift is over. Jack has several more hours on the clock to feel bad about it, no matter how much Shitty, the closer, tries to make him laugh. 

It’s not until Jack has clocked out, hauled himself down the block to his parking spot, and safely ensconced himself in his car that he sees the text from Bittle. 

Hey! I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable today. We can talk about it if you want, or I can switch to weekends or something when you’re off.

Jack stares down at his phone. 

No, I’m sorry. I’ve been taking some things out on you that you don’t deserve, and that’s on me. You haven’t done anything but make me question some things.

Delete. Delete. Delete. 

No, I’m sorry. I’ve been taking some things out on you that you don’t deserve, and that’s on me. It’s not your fault. I’m just realizing I have a lot more work to do around my relationships with food and my body than I thought.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

No, I’m sorry. I’ve been taking some things out on you that you don’t deserve, and that’s on me. It’s not your fault. My therapist is on leave right now and I’m not doing great.

He crushes his eyes shut until his phone vibrates with Bitty’s response: Your therapist! I do love a man who values his mental health. I understand, anyway. Can I do anything to help?

Jack scoffs. No, I just need to get out of my head. You’re fine, really.

Actually, can I ask you something? Even if it might be a little forward?

That depends on the question.

If you’re enjoying my pies (and don’t you dare tell me if you’re not), why haven’t you said a word to me about them?

Jack flushes. He thinks Bittle’s teasing, though he’s never been good at reading tone and his anxiety doesn’t help. But he took the mention of his therapist well, at least? That seems like it might be something? And besides, it’s not like he can really pretend nothing’s wrong with the way he’s treated Bittle or the pies at this point. 

Finally, he types, I am enjoying them. I just have a hard time with food sometimes. It’s hard for me to let myself enjoy things.

He has to close his eyes again to send it. George would be so proud of him. Even though he feels like he might need to be peeled off the pavement.

His phone buzzes. Well, mister, lucky for you, I’m happy to help with that!

Again. If you want me to, I mean! I don’t want to invite myself along on your self-love journey!

And again. Ugh. What I’m trying to say is that if you’re not a pumpkin man, I’ve got plenty more up my sleeve! If that would be ok with you, that is.

In spite of himself, Jack smiles. 

I actually prefer apple.

Chapter Text

It’s Halloween and Bitty has officially been working at Zimmermann’s for two whole months. He’s forged an uneasy détente with Betsy, as he’s named the espresso machine, even though he still doesn’t really trust her. And maybe more importantly, he’s forged a truce with Jack, too, but that feels easier and easier with each passing shift. 

Maybe a little too easy, Bitty worries when he makes Jack laugh or catches him looking in his direction. His blue eyes are deep enough to fall into, and Bitty’s not sure he could make himself climb out. He hasn’t made his queerness any secret, but Jack is impossible to read, and the last thing Bitty needs after finally getting on Jack’s good side is a big, dumb crush on a straight guy.

Not that he doesn’t already have a big, dumb crush, to be clear. He’d just like some clarity before he gets in even further over his head. 

And his crush isn't the only thing that’s gotten bigger. Bitty’s been trying so dang hard not to notice the weight Jack has gained, not to let his gaze linger on the mound of Jack’s belly beneath his apron or the strain of his thick thighs against the seams of his pants or Lord , his butt. Jack’s butt is — the first word that comes to mind is shapely , which is mortifying because it’s exactly the kind of thing Bitty’s mama would say. But it’s true! Bitty has to look away every time Jack bends over behind the counter for his own sanity.

Today, Jack ducks out from the back of house brushing crumbs from his hands and shoots Bitty a sheepish smile. The cat ears Bitty brought two pairs of — just in case — are perched on his head, only a little darker than the hair falling into Jack’s eyes. Bitty’s own pair is orange tabby, but obviously Jack is the quintessential mysterious black cat. It took suspiciously little argument to convince him to put them on. 

His Halloween playlist is a different story. He’s just waiting for Jack to notice that every fifth song is “The Monster Mash.”

“Quiet today,” says Jack, nodding at the rain streaming down the front windows. He spoons ground decaf into a pour-over filter and fills the gooseneck kettle from the hot water tap. Bitty shudders; it’s sad enough that Jack has some hangup about desserts, poor thing, but restricting himself from caffeine might be even sadder. “I think someone else is supposed to come in at noon, too.”

Bitty’s heart sinks a little. “Someone else?”

“Yeah, one of the closers. His name’s, uh, well, on the schedule he’s Byron, but he tells everyone to call him Shitty. I doubt we’ll need him, though.”

“ Why ?”

“The children’s hospital does a trunk or treat event, and so does the daycare down the street, and we tend to get a lot of traffic from those. At least when the weather’s better.” Then, catching Bitty’s furrowed eyebrows, “ Oh , why is he called Shitty? I have no idea. He didn’t explain and I didn’t ask.”

Bitty sniffs. “Bless his heart.” He knows it’s unfair; Shitty, despite the odds, is probably a perfectly decent guy. But someone else is going to disrupt the careful dynamic Bitty and Jack have settled into; someone else will be funnier or more professional or better at steaming milk. Or worse, he’ll be obnoxious and Jack will make himself scarce to do shift manager things and Bitty will be stuck with some guy who voluntarily calls himself Shitty . 

He watches Jack make his cup of decaf. The rain patters down the windows. It’s already past eleven-thirty, so his time alone with Jack is ticking. 

“Do you have Halloween plans?” he tries, and Jack laugh-scoffs.

“No. I’m not much for parties.”

“What about scary movies?”

“Not really. What about you?”

“Nope, no plans! Just handing out candy; my neighborhood is mostly college students, but there are a few families with kids who get excited when someone actually answers the door for trick-or-treating.”

Jack smiles a little. “I bet you give out really good candy.”

Bitty’s chest warms like he just dumped twelve ounces of freshly brewed coffee on himself, sweet but sloppy. This feels like playing with fire. But still, he says, “You bet I do, mister. King-size bars or bust. I got called ‘fun size’ too much as a kid to ever inflict them on other people.”

Jack actually laughs this time, and Bitty goes on, energized, “Besides, what’s fun about something tiny? The bigger the better, if you ask me!”

He stops just as quickly, and for a moment he and Jack try not to look at each other. He’s almost certain he’s said too much, but he’s Bitty and he doesn’t know how to defuse a situation other than to keep fucking talking . 

“And I do like scary movies,” he continues, trying to keep smiling, keep his tone light, even as he fears his expression is starting to look crazed. “When I have” — when I have a big, soft man to cuddle and hold me during the jump scares — “someone to watch with, you know.”

“I think I’m too jumpy,” says Jack, and Bitty stares at him for a moment before he realizes that it’s a very reasonable response to what he said. “I wouldn’t be much comfort.”

He turns and busies himself removing the filter and grounds from the ceramic pour-over cone, leaving Bitty to wonder if that was supposed to be pointed or if he’s way overthinking what Jack has interpreted as a normal conversation. 

“Well,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “if you want a king-size candy bar later, just give me a holler. I’ll save one for you.”

“ Merci ,” murmurs Jack, rinsing the ceramic cone. “So … you really like food, eh?”

Bitty pauses in the middle of drying a mug. “Of course! What’s not to like? Food is sacred. Food is love ! I’m a Southern transplant, remember. Butter’s practically part of our religion.”

Jack’s quiet. His text message from weeks ago blooms at the back of Bitty’s eyes — I just have a hard time with food sometimes. I have a hard time letting myself enjoy things — and Bitty kicks himself, hard and then harder. What’s not to like? Probably a lot, for someone who struggles with food! 

“I finally, um,” says Jack into the quiet, and then he stops short. Bitty braces for whatever’s coming.

“Is that ‘The Monster Mash’ again ?”

—

Jack knows he’s gotten heavier. He’s sized up his pants and his uniform shirt and can’t deny how much more comfortably he can move with a little extra room. Does he love that he’s eating multiple hand pies almost every day? Well. He wouldn’t, if they’d been made by just about anyone else.

He’s been trying to go easier on himself. He runs every morning like clockwork, and he’s steadily improving his speed and endurance. He’s got a big frame and he’s always had a big appetite. What does it matter if he’s eating more and gaining weight? Sure, he doesn’t like the way his workout clothes cling and stick or the way he can feel sweat pool beneath his pecs and his belly when he stops at a crosswalk. He doesn’t love the curves of the silhouette he cuts in storefront windows. But his body feels good when he’s running, and maybe it is as simple as what George suggested: Run a more residential route where there are no windows to see yourself in. Focus on how the movement makes you feel, not how you look when you’re doing it. 

He’d told her about how he’d frozen up as soon as he was hit with the one-two punch of a thin, cute new coworker and his omnipresent plates of baked goods. How his impulse to restrict had immediately locked horns with his trained recovery response of it’s okay to eat what you want . He’d been angry about the temptation — how dare Bittle disrupt his fragile success at eating like a regular person — and angrier at himself for giving in so easily. And the thing about restriction is that it’s a slippery slope. If I eat one hand pie, I’ll have a salad for lunch inevitably becomes well, I had dressing on the salad, so I’ll just have an apple for dinner. Well, I ate the apple too late, so I’ll skip breakfast tomorrow. I skipped breakfast, so I can have two hand pies, but I can’t have lunch after. It never fucking ends.

Except he’s working on thinking that maybe it can.

He sips his coffee. Drinking it black isn’t his preference, but he’s still working back up to putting any kind of milk or sweetener into it. 

Why do you think you feel so nervous around Eric? George had asked.

Um, Jack had stalled. I want to impress him, I guess. I want him to like me and think that I’m as attractive as I think he is. 

And why do you think his association with food has been so triggering for you?

Because — it felt like a trap. I wanted to be cool about it but I also didn’t feel like I could be attractive if I ate like that. Or — if I wanted to be able to eat like that, I had to restrict whatever else I ate, because otherwise it would be too much.

Do you still feel like that?

Jack thinks about the way Bitty beams when he sees Jack eating something he made. He thinks about how he keeps catching Bitty’s eyes on him, the same appreciative look he used to see on people when he was thinner. He thinks about Bitty. 

No. 

He clears his throat. Bitty is watching him, his brown eyes doelike and a little skittish. It looks strange on his normally open, cheerful face. “I, uh, finally talked to my therapist,” he says, with a little laugh at his own expense. “About the food stuff. It’s getting a little better.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bitty instantly. “I shouldn’t have —”

“No, no,” Jack overlaps. “I wish I could feel the way you do about food. I wish it felt that good for me. I wish it all felt as good as — your food.”

Bitty’s in danger of dropping the mug he’s been drying for the last five minutes. As he opens his mouth, the bell dings over the door and Shitty rolls in.

“Zimmermann! What is up , my man? Other dude I don’t know! What’s up, other dude I don’t know?”

Jack almost laughs at how befuddled Bitty looks. “Hey, Shitty. This is B — this is Eric. He’s been doing the mid shift for the past few months.”

“Bitty,” says Bitty. “You can call me Bitty.”

“Bitty!” Shitty crows, hopping over the counter instead of opening the little built-in gate. “Bitty and Shitty. Love a rhyme, my man. Love a rhyme.”

He strolls into the back of house, whistling. Bitty stares after him, looking slightly undone. The corners of Jack’s mouth tug down.

“He’s handsome, right?” he says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Bitty’s eyes swing back to Jack, blond brows furrowed. “What?”

“Shitty. I mean, he’s a pretty good-looking guy, right? Besides the name.” Because Jack knows what a lot of guys like. He’s been on the apps. Sure, he deleted them all a few minutes later, because the whole thing was so uncomfortable and mortifying, but he’s seen the kind of guys on there: tight bodies with six-packs, defined pecs, thick mustaches, chiseled jaws covered in stubble. Jack has stubble and soft pecs that are definitely visible through his shirt, and that’s about it. 

“Um,” says Bitty. “I mean, I don’t want to be impolite, but —” He glances behind him, then lowers his voice. “He’s not … really my type? I don’t like men with too many muscles.”

Before Jack can properly process that, Shitty’s voice comes at top volume from the back of house. “Bitty! Are you the pie fairy?”

“That’s me!” Bitty calls back. “Wherever I go, pies appear.”

“ Sick ! Jack, dude, have you tried these? They’re fuckin’ ’swawesome .”

“Yeah,” says Jack, but his eyes are on Bitty’s. “They’re amazing.”

Bitty blinks. He looks behind him uncertainly as Shitty ambles back out, apron tied loosely around his waist. 

“Zimmermann, my man,” he says, clocking in with a flourish, “you are rocking those ears.”

Jack reaches up and startles: he’d forgotten the cat ears. “Oh. Thanks. Bittle — it was Bittle’s idea.”

“Bitty, you must be a miracle worker,” says Shitty. “If you told me when I started here that I would one day see the great Jack Zimmermann being voluntarily fun and whimsical, I would have asked for some of whatever you were smoking because it must have been good.”

Jack flushes. Bitty’s eyes grow wider.

“I’m, um,” he says, taking a slow step back. “I’m going to take my break, if that’s okay.”

“Absolutely,” says Shitty, tossing a Sharpie up in the air and catching it behind his back. Jack watches Bitty go, and even though he’s been working with Shitty practically since Zimmermann’s opened, even though Shitty is the only coworker Jack has ever hung out with outside of work, he feels like the room gets a little darker once Bitty is gone.

Shitty keeps chatting, drifting from one end of the counter to the other as he continues to toss the Sharpie up and do increasingly complicated maneuvers to catch it. Jack doesn’t process any of it. 

“Hey, man,” says Shitty, waving a hand in Jack’s face. “Earth to Z-man. You good?”  

“What? Yeah. Just — zoning out. What did you say?”

“Just asked if it’s been busy today.”

“Oh. No, it’s been quiet. Hey, uh, I’ll be right back, okay?”

Shitty raises an eyebrow. “Sure.” Then, a moment later: “Yo, is this ‘The Monster Mash?’ Hell yes, dude.”

It takes everything Jack’s got not to chase Bitty down in the back of house. Instead, he measures his steps and stops a few yards from where Bitty’s pretzeled into a corner, his phone awkwardly plugged into the outlet under the little row of cubbies for employee belongings. Because the back of house doubles as the bulk storage area, he’s sitting on a box of paper cups, his weight barely making a dent in the cardboard.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Bitty’s head snaps up. “Oh! Hi. Has it been fifteen minutes?”

“No.” He scours the storage boxes for something that might hold his weight, but decides not to chance it. “Uh, I just wanted to — it felt like we were sort of … in the middle of something. Before Shitty came in.”

Bitty watches him carefully. “What kind of something?”

“I don’t know,” says Jack, a little helplessly. God, he wishes Bitty would stand up. He feels huge and hulking looming over him, like the giant in a fairy tale. “I’m kind of new at this. But I guess … I hope it’s something?”

It’s a long moment before Bitty says, “Me too.”

Then, without moving from his cramped position on the box, he adds, “So you’re not into Shitty?”

Jack kicks out a laugh. “No. Definitely not. But, um …”

“Yes?” says Bitty, unfolding his small frame and taking a step toward Jack. 

“But I am into you,” says Jack softly, and when Bitty takes another step closer, they both lean in.

Bitty’s mouth is warm and soft, and he tastes like sugar and coffee. He has to stand on his toes to reach Jack’s lips, and when his hands land on the bulges at Jack’s sides, Jack barely thinks of flinching.

“That’s good news,” Bitty whispers into his mouth, several seconds into the kiss. “Because I’m pretty into you, too, mister. If you haven’t noticed.”

“I told you,” murmurs Jack. “I’m new at this.”

“Doing fine to me, sweetheart,” says Bitty, and even though Jack knows this is what people call falling, it’s been a long time since he’s felt so steady. 

He forgets Shitty’s out front manning the counter. He forgets that they’re in the storeroom of his father’s flagship coffee shop. He forgets to feel bad about himself. He forgets everything except for Bitty in front of him.

They kiss. They kiss. And then they just stand, Bitty’s head tucked beneath Jack’s chin, the honey scent of his shampoo wafting up. Bitty’s arms snug around Jack, somehow still a perfect fit.

“The Monster Mash” starts up again from the stereo.

“You hear that, Mr. Zimmermann?” says Bitty, batting his eyes as Jack laughs. “They’re playing our song.”