Work Text:
Hughie stared at the empty profile page like it might bite him.
The cursor blinked in the first field: Username. Somehow, that felt like the biggest commitment of all. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a full minute before he typed:
AwkwardButNice
He cringed. Then deleted it. Then re-typed it. Then sighed and left it there.
It was late, and his bedroom was dim except for the glow of his laptop screen. His dad’s laughter drifted in faintly from the living room. Carla was over again, probably for the weekend. They were watching some old rom-com and giggling like teenagers.
Hughie tried not to feel bitter about it.
Even his dad had a girlfriend now. Hughie's ex Annie was in a very public, very glowing relationship with a woman who looked like she hiked for fun and probably made homemade granola. And Hughie? Hughie had half a bag of crisps, a bed that squeaked when he shifted wrong, and exactly zero prospects.
He’d fought this. For weeks. Told himself he didn’t need a dating app. That he’d meet someone “naturally,” like they always say in movies—except no one ever shows what happens when you work all day fixing TVs and come home to eat dinner in front of Bob’s Burgers.
So yeah. This was happening.
He filled in the basics: age, location, occupation (“Electronics Repair Technician” sounded fancier than “Guy Who Fixes Stuff”), hobbies, favorite movie (Jaws, it's a classic.), and finally, a bio.
After three failed drafts and one he had to delete immediately for sounding like a serial killer, he settled on:
> Just a decent guy who likes sci-fi, good coffee, and conversations that aren’t entirely about protein shakes. Probably too nervous to message first. Please don’t be awful.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest.
The photo was harder. He scrolled through his camera roll, rejecting anything with bad lighting, red-eye, or the haunted expression of a man caught off guard by his front-facing camera. Eventually, he settled on a candid Demetri had taken—he was holding a coffee, mid-laugh, sunlight in his hair. He looked… nice. Not hot. But not hopeless.
“Alright,” Hughie muttered, heart pounding like he was launching a missile. “Here goes nothing.”
He hit submit.
And just like that, AwkwardButNice was officially live on Heart2Heart.
Hughie scrolled.
And scrolled.
And scrolled.
He swiped right on a few guys—nothing crazy, just the ones who didn’t have blurry bathroom selfies or bios that said “just ask ;)”. A barista with a cute smile. A guy with a dog. One who liked Doctor Who and wasn’t weird about it.
By the time his stomach growled loud enough to startle him, he decided it was dinner time.
The local diner wasn’t anything special—greasy tables, too much chrome, staff who knew his order by now—but it was close and quiet. He sat in his usual booth, ate his usual burger, and tried not to think too hard about how sad it was that this was now routine.
When he got home, he kicked off his shoes, climbed back into bed with his laptop, and refreshed the page.
Seventeen messages.
His eyebrows shot up. “What the hell—”
For a second, he felt… flattered? Wanted? Like maybe this whole “putting yourself out there” thing wasn’t such a disaster after all.
Then he opened the first message.
And the second.
And the third.
“…Oh my God.”
Delete.
Delete.
Hard delete.
It was like someone had set a filter to “Men With No Boundaries” and hit send-all. Dick pics. Requests for “a good little baby boy.” One guy offered to be his “sugar alpha.” Another opened with, "You ever worn a collar before?"
“I—no! What—why??”
He almost shut the whole thing down. He was seconds from deleting his profile and pretending this never happened.
And then one message caught his eye.
>BluntForceCharm:
I was going to open with something charming, but let’s be honest—you’ve already read six versions of “hey :)” and one guy asking if you’re into feet. So here’s me, skipping the crap: you seem interesting. Prove me right.
Hughie let out a surprised laugh. Actual laughter.
He clicked the profile.
The guy in the photo was leaning back in a weathered patio chair, legs sprawled out like he owned the earth, a Hawaiian shirt, half open showing off his chest hair. He had a beard—messy, scruffy, definitely not curated—and his dark hair was wild in a way that looked stubborn, like it grew the way it wanted and dared anyone to try fixing it. He held a tiny teacup between two large fingers, pinky up in the most absurdly dainty pose imaginable, and was looking directly at the camera like he was daring someone to mock him.
His grin was crooked, half-smirk, half-warning.
He looked like trouble.
But the kind of trouble you wanted to get involved with.
“Please don’t be a catfish,” Hughie muttered, dragging his hand down his face.
Then he clicked Reply.
>AwkwardButNice:
Wow, skipping “hey :)” and going straight for the existential pitch. Bold.
And here I was, hoping to open with something classy like, “do you like breadsticks?”
But fine. I might be interesting.
You first—prove you’re not just a guy who quotes Tarantino and thinks sarcasm is a personality.
The reply came back within a minute.
>BluntForceCharm:
I’ve only quoted Tarantino once this week and it was about coffee, so I feel like that’s unfair.
Also, I’m genuinely offended you didn’t ask about my breadstick preferences.
(Garlic. Obviously.)
Hughie smirked and pulled his laptop closer.
>AwkwardButNice:
Okay, acceptable answer.
Bonus points if you eat them without making eye contact like a psychopath.
So what’s your deal then? Job? Hobbies? Secret second life as a magician?
>BluntForceCharm:
Mercenary for hire.
Kidding. Mostly.
I work nights doing security. Pays alright. Lets me avoid people, which is a plus.
Hobbies? Drinking tea. Swearing at DIY shows. Making the perfect roast.
You?
>AwkwardButNice:
I fix things. Consoles, speakers, TVs—basically all the stuff people swear isn’t broken right before I definitely fix it.
And I like sci-fi, cartoons, and being right. Sometimes in that order.
Roast, though? That’s… unexpectedly impressive. What kind?
>BluntForceCharm:
You’ll have to find out the hard way.
Unless that sounded like a weird innuendo. In which case—yes, that too.
Hughie snorted out loud, immediately covering his mouth like someone would hear.
>AwkwardButNice:
Wow, strong move from the breadstick guy.
You always flirt like it’s a dare?
>BluntForceCharm:
Only with people who make me laugh.
Hughie stopped for a second, then grinned. It wasn’t smooth, not really. But it was honest.
He hadn’t planned to feel anything tonight. And yet… here he was, eagerly waiting for the next message.
They messaged into the early hours, the kind of late-night talking that made time weird. The kind where you look up and realize it’s 2:37 a.m. and your cheeks hurt from grinning.
Somewhere between debating the best sci-fi sidekicks and comparing tea habits, Hughie typed:
> AwkwardButNice:
This feels like the part where we awkwardly ask each other’s names, huh?
> BluntForceCharm:
You mean I’m not just going to call you “Awkward” forever?
Fine. It’s Billy. Try not to swoon.
> AwkwardButNice:
Hughie. No swooning. Mild smirking, maybe.
> BluntForceCharm:
Smirk noted.
You want to switch to text? App’s a pain in the arse.
> AwkwardButNice:
Depends. You gonna send me weird voice notes in the middle of the night?
> BluntForceCharm:
Only if they’re about roast potatoes or why The Thing is a perfect film.
> AwkwardButNice:
Sold. Here’s my number.
The next day, Hughie barely made it through his shift without checking his phone every five minutes.
His boss gave him side-eye twice when he laughed under his breath at a message, and once when he smiled down at his phone like it had told him he won the lottery.
Billy’s texts came in fast and sharp, full of ridiculous commentary about customers at his job and the playlist the night shift had on loop.
> Billy:
Security cam caught a guy trying to climb the drinks fridge at 2 a.m.
“I need the Fanta” was his excuse.
I didn’t even stop him. That’s commitment.
> Hughie:
Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t be that guy.
> Billy:
You? You’d ask nicely for the Fanta and then apologize to the fridge.
> Hughie:
I would. Damn it.
Every buzz of his phone made Hughie’s day a little lighter. His coworkers noticed it too—he smiled more. He actually whistled while fixing a customer’s cracked Bluetooth speaker, which earned him a raised eyebrow and a suspicious, “You on drugs?”
“No,” he said, grinning. “Just... texting someone.”
And maybe, just maybe, something more.
Hughie found himself checking his phone constantly—not in a desperate way (he told himself), but in a just-in-case-he-messages-me way. And Billy always messaged.
Sometimes it was something stupid. Sometimes it was actually kind of sweet. Usually, it was both.
Like when Hughie was elbow-deep in the back of a busted smart TV and his phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket:
> Billy:
Watching a guy try to parallel park for the past 6 minutes.
I believe in him. But not strongly.
Hughie smirked, resting the TV’s back panel against the counter and texting back with one grimy thumb.
> Hughie:
Offer to park it for him. Bonus points if you don’t hit anything.
Or anyone.
> Billy:
I like that you assume I won’t.
You have too much faith in me.
> Hughie:
I have barely enough faith in you.
You should feel honoured.
> Billy:
Touched. Truly.
That night, Hughie was stuck at the dinner table with his dad and Carla, trying to act normal while his phone buzzed against his leg like it was vibrating with judgment. Carla was mid-story about some holiday she'd taken in the Lake District when he sneakily glanced at the screen under the table.
> Billy:
What you up to?
Or are you busy being aggressively adorable with the parental unit?
He snorted into his mashed potatoes, immediately earning a look from his dad.
> Hughie:
I’m being third-wheeled so hard I think I might start getting romantic montage music in the background.
Carla just said “we finish each other’s sandwiches.” Please send help.
> Billy:
I can’t help you.
You’re in a sitcom. Possibly a Hallmark movie.
Next scene: your dad proposes over a roast.
> Hughie:
Don’t joke. He made a speech earlier about how love “hits you when you’re not lookin’.”
I swear I saw soft-focus lighting appear.
> Billy:
…you know what?
I’m rooting for him. Let love win.
But also I hope Carla’s the kind of woman who drinks whiskey and wins bar fights.
> Hughie:
She made her own pickled onions. So… maybe?
Hughie couldn’t stop grinning. He barely touched his dessert.
Later, curled up in bed, he stared at the screen, thumbs hovering.
He wanted to say something. Something real. He’d typed out, "I really like talking to you," and deleted it. Then tried, "You’re the best part of my day lately," and backspaced that too.
Instead, he sent:
> Hughie:
You’re a menace.
I mean that in the nicest way possible.
> Billy:
I’ll take it.
Better than “you’re a mistake” or “please stop texting me.”
Which I’ve gotten before, by the way. I’m a treat.
> Hughie:
You’re something, alright.
He hesitated.
Then added:
> Hughie:
I’ve been smiling like an idiot for days.
Just thought you should know.
There was a pause—just long enough for Hughie to worry he’d crossed some invisible line.
Then:
> Billy:
Good.
I like making you smile.
Hughie hadn’t realized how much he missed this—the feeling of someone looking forward to talking to him. And not just anyone. Billy.
Billy, with his chaotic humor, unexpected warmth, and ability to send exactly the right message at the worst possible time.
> Billy:
You ever fix a speaker by hitting it with a wrench?
Asking for a friend. (The friend is me. I made it worse.)
> Hughie:
STOP TOUCHING THINGS.
You’re the reason instructions come with pictures now.
He was in the middle of restocking HDMI cables when his phone buzzed with a voice note. He quickly ducked into the staff room, plugged in an earbud, and hit play.
Billy’s voice came through—gravelly, amused, soft at the edges.
> “You ever notice how people act like you're a genius for putting the right bin out? Some guy just clapped when I sorted glass from general waste. Thought I was being knighted. Anyway, thought you’d enjoy that. Don’t work too hard, sunshine.”
Hughie had to sit down. Something about hearing his voice—unfiltered and real— that accent, made his stomach flip in a weird, fluttery way.
He replayed it twice.
Just to be sure.
Later that night, he sent a selfie. Nothing fancy—just him on the couch, hoodie half-zipped, blanket over his legs, a lazy half-smile and raised brow that said “What kind of mischief are you up to now?”
Billy replied with a picture of himself in bed, messy hair, no shirt, just a sliver of tattoo on one shoulder, and an unimpressed face.
> Billy:
You send me this soft boy bullshit and expect me not to flirt back?
Dangerous game, Hughie.
Hughie choked on his coffee.
A few days later, Hughie was out for drinks with Demetri and finally cracked.
He’d been checking his phone every five minutes, and Demetri raised an eyebrow.
“You texting your gran or someone hot?”
Hughie tried to play it cool. “Someone. Just… this guy.”
Demetri grinned. “This guy? Oh-ho. Do tell.”
“He’s just—funny. Sharp. Kind of weird. Keeps me on my toes.” Hughie hesitated. “And he’s hot. Like, stupidly hot.”
Demetri leaned forward, instantly invested. “Hot like ‘I’d lie to the police for him’ or hot like ‘he could ruin your life and you’d say thank you’?”
“…both.”
Demetri let out a low whistle. “My man. You’re doomed.”
> Hughie:
Just got grilled by my best friend.
He says I’m doomed.
Thoughts?
> Billy:
I am doom incarnate.
But like, the cuddly kind.
> Hughie:
Bold of you to assume I’d let you cuddle me.
We haven’t even met yet.
> Billy:
Yet.
That’s the important bit.
Hughie stared at the word for a long time.
The banter between them had been non-stop all day. Flirty. Funny. Kind of addictive.
Hughie had almost worked up the nerve to suggest meeting up when a new message popped through.
> Billy:
So… what do you reckon? Fancy meeting up for a drink sometime?
Hughie stared at it, heart thudding. Then he typed:
> Hughie:
Sure. When are you thinking?
> Billy:
This weekend. Saturday night?
> Hughie:
Sounds good. Got a place in mind?
> Billy:
You pick, sweetheart. I’m easy.
…not that kind of easy. Usually.
Hughie laughed out loud in his apartment.
> Hughie:
Right. Okay. There’s this bar near my place—Lowry’s. Kind of quiet, good drinks. 8 o’clock?
> Billy:
Lowry’s. Saturday at 8.
Can’t wait.
Hughie stared at that message for a long moment, feeling something bright and stupid bloom in his chest.
He had a date. With someone who actually made him want to go on one.
> Billy:
Looking forward to Saturday.
Try not to fall in love with me instantly. It’s exhausting for everyone.
> Hughie:
I make zero promises.
But I’ll bring a backup drink just in case you’re a complete nightmare.
> Billy:
Smart man.
That night, Hughie lay in bed, phone resting on his chest, the dark ceiling above him blurry with half-formed spirals of what ifs.
What if he doesn't like me in person?
What if I make a dumb joke and ruin the vibe?
What if I trip over a chair and fall face-first into a jukebox?
The possibilities were endless and increasingly stupid. Still, he smiled.
By Friday night, he was already obsessing over what to wear. He stood in front of the mirror trying on shirts he hadn’t touched in months, some still carrying faint whiffs of detergent or that permanent I don’t go out much sadness.
He changed four times. Rejected two hair products. Googled the bar just to check pictures and read reviews. Make sure nothing had changed since he was last there.
“Cozy, low lighting, decent whisky selection.”
“Music’s loud enough to drown awkward silences.”
“Guy at the end of the bar might challenge you to arm wrestling, don’t engage.”
Perfect.
He made a playlist just to fill the space in his room. Something light, something hopeful. Even that felt weirdly intimate—like the kind of thing you’d only do if you were letting someone into your orbit for real.
Which was terrifying.
And also… kind of thrilling.
The next morning, Hughie was jittery at work. Not just nervous—but buzzing. Brenda gave him a look when she caught him smiling at his phone during a quiet moment in the back.
“Someone’s got a date,” she said, half-accusatory, half-smug.
Hughie flushed. “Maybe.”
He fixed a pair of wireless headphones with one hand and texted Billy with the other.
> Hughie:
Just fixed something by smacking it and now feel like a god.
Is this what power feels like?
> Billy:
You’ve unlocked the ancient secret of tech repair.
Next step: summoning eldritch horrors through Bluetooth.
> Hughie:
You joke but I’ve seen customers who could do that by accident.
> Billy:
Can’t wait to hear all about it over drinks tomorrow.
I’ll try not to scare you off.
> Hughie:
I’d like to see you try.
By the time he got home that night, he had that strange floaty feeling—not quite nerves, not quite excitement. Just alive. Present.
He changed into his pajamas and curled up on the couch, phone still in hand.
Tomorrow, he’d meet Billy.
The guy who drank tea like a villain. Who said the wrong things in the funniest ways. Who made him laugh without trying. Who somehow made him feel wanted without even touching him.
And all Hughie could think was: God, I hope he turns up.
Billy approached the booth like he belonged there, casual confidence in every step. He spotted Hughie instantly, gave a half-smile—lazy, crooked, and unfairly attractive—and said, “You’re not bad at all for a dating app gamble.”
Hughie stood a bit too quickly. “Yeah, well… you clean up alright for a guy who's hair looked like a bird nest.”
Billy chuckled, the corner of his mouth twitching like he approved. “Told you I was charming.”
“I mean, I haven’t run yet, so you’ve got that going for you,” Hughie said, forcing his voice to sound steadier than he felt.
“Good sign,” Billy said, slipping into the booth like it was second nature. “You gonna sit, or you planning to hover and judge me the whole night?”
“I can do both,” Hughie muttered, heart still racing, before sitting down across from him.
To his surprise, the night actually went well. Once the initial nerves settled, they talked—really talked. The conversation flowed easy between jokes, stories, and casual teasing. Hughie learned Billy hated unnecessary small talk, and secretly had opinions about how people butchered (ha) roast potatoes. Billy learned Hughie had a soft spot for broken tech, couldn’t handle spicy food, and once cried at an animated short about a lonely robot.
Every time Billy leaned forward a little, arms on the table, gaze locked in, Hughie had to remind himself not to dissolve.
Don’t ruin this. Don’t say something stupid. Just enjoy the night.
And he was. He was genuinely having fun, smiling so much it hurt his face.
Which, naturally, is when it all went to hell.
They were finishing their second drinks. Billy leaned back, arm stretched along the back of the booth, one leg kicked out comfortably. He looked relaxed, charming, maybe even a little impressed.
“You’re a good laugh,” he said, tone low, smile crooked. “Better than I expected.”
“I—thanks?” Hughie laughed, cheeks pink. “I think?”
“No, seriously.” Billy glanced at him, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re sweet. Funny. Real. Got that whole awkward charm thing going. And you…” He paused. “You look like a screamer.”
Hughie blinked. “Wait—what?”
Billy leaned in just a bit. “Just saying, if you wanted to sneak off to the toilets for a quickie”
Hughie stared at him, completely frozen.
Billy didn’t even look sheepish. He looked hopeful.
The mood shattered so hard it might as well have exploded.
“You what?” Hughie said again, voice louder, cracking.
Billy blinked, clearly not expecting pushback. “I was joking. Kinda.”
“You were kinda joking about fucking me in a toilet?” Hughie’s face went beet red, but this time with anger. “I—what the fuck, Billy?”
“Alright, alright,” Billy held up a hand, chuckling awkwardly. “Bit forward, sure, but you can’t blame me. You look like—”
Hughie stood up, fast. “Nope. No. We’re not doing this.”
“Hughie—”
“No,” he snapped, grabbing his coat. “You’re hot, Billy. Clearly. But I actually liked talking to you. And now you’ve gone and turned this into a bloody bathroom quickie fantasy. So thanks. Really. This was fun. Up until it wasn’t.”
And without waiting for a response, Hughie walked out, pulse pounding, heart sinking, and stomach twisting.
The cold night air hit harder than expected. Hughie didn’t stop walking until he was a block from the bar, heart hammering, breath fogging in the air like he’d just sprinted out of a disaster.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, half in frustration, half to ground himself.
It was going so well. The conversation, the banter, the little smiles and the way Billy looked at him like he meant something—none of it felt fake.
And then one comment. One offhand, careless comment that yanked the floor out from under it all.
Hughie wasn’t even sure if Billy had meant it, but that almost made it worse—like he was so used to saying the wrong thing, he didn’t even realise how much damage it could do.
His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.
He ignored it.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
He pulled it out, thumb hovering over the screen. Billy's name sat at the top of the chat like it was taunting him.
> Billy:
Alright, that came out wrong.
Was meant to be a joke.
I’m not good at this stuff, Hughie. You were nervous, I got too comfortable.
Didn’t mean to mess it up.
Please don’t block me. I regret it. I really do.
Hughie stared down at the screen. His stomach twisted.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to throw his phone.
He wanted to believe him.
But instead, he just started typing—fast, before the words could get lost behind everything else swirling in his head.
> Hughie:
Why would you ruin it like that?
He hit send.
It felt like a punch in the chest. Not dramatic. Just true.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He wasn’t ready for whatever came next.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, wrapped his coat around himself, and kept walking into the night, hands clenched and heart still cracking.
Hughie didn’t check his phone again until he was nearly home.
He sat on the edge of his bed, coat still on, shoes still tied, staring down at the message thread like it might burn a hole in his palm.
Then, finally, it buzzed again.
Just one message.
> Billy:
Because I’m an idiot.
Because I panic when I like someone too much and try to act like I don’t care.
I do care, Hughie. I’m not just after sex. I’m not good at this, but I’m trying.
And I really like you.
Please give me another shot.
Hughie exhaled slowly. He could still feel the heat in his chest from earlier—humiliation, disappointment, frustration—all sitting heavy.
But underneath it, a quieter voice. The one that remembered the way Billy had listened. The way he laughed at Hughie’s dumb jokes. The voice that knew Billy had warned him. I say the wrong thing. I’m not good at this.
It didn’t make it okay.
But it did make it make sense.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then he started typing.
> Hughie:
Give me a chance to get over the fact that you made me think it was just sex you were after.
I’m not like that, Billy.
There was a pause.
A short one.
Then—
> Billy:
I know you’re not.
I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.
I’ll wait. As long as you need.
Hughie stared at the screen, heart tight.
He didn’t know what would happen next.
But at least now… he knew Billy wasn’t walking away.
And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to either.
The bell above the shop door jingled with a kind of violent optimism.
“Delivery for—ehh… Hughie?!” a voice called out, half-shouted, fully confident.
Hughie peeked out from behind the workbench, holding a half-disassembled wireless speaker. “Uh… yeah?”
At the counter stood a man he’d never seen before.
Messy curls, leather jacket layered over a hoodie, boots that had clearly survived a war, and enough rings and jewelry to set off airport security from three miles away. He was holding a bakery box like it contained state secrets.
“Ah! Merci, mon dieu,” the man sighed dramatically. “I have found you.”
“…Do I know you?” Hughie asked cautiously, setting the speaker down and wiping his hands.
“No. But your boyfriend is very persistent.” He grinned. “Muffin delivery. Urgent.”
Hughie blinked. “What?”
“Billy,” the man said, wiggling his brows. “Scruffy, grumbly, swears a lot. Very emotionally repressed. Ringing any bells?”
Hughie flushed. “He’s not my—wait, he sent you here?”
“Technically he asked me to deliver these to someone matching your description who works with electronics,” the guy said with a shrug. “I may have visited… several establishments. You’re the first Hughie I found who didn’t think I was trying to scam them.”
“Oh my God.” Hughie stared at the box now sitting on the counter between them.
“Don’t worry, they’re not poisoned. I had one on the way to make sure.”
“You ate one?”
“Would you trust someone who didn’t?” he asked, completely unbothered.
“I—okay, I don’t know how to deal with this.”
“Most don’t,” the man said cheerfully. “Anyway. I should go before I start helping customers. That’s when things get weird.”
He turned to leave, then paused at the door and glanced over his shoulder.
“He’s been… more bearable since he started talking to you,” he said, not quite smiling. “That’s not a thing that happens often.”
And then he was gone, off into the street like a chaotic bakery fairy.
Hughie stared after him, then down at the warm box in his hands.
He opened it slowly, already guessing—but still a little stunned when he saw the cinnamon muffins, neatly arranged, still warm.
There was a note taped to the lid, scrawled, stubborn handwriting:
> Still sorry. Still waiting. I figured these had a better chance of getting through than I did.
—Billy
Hughie sat down behind the counter, holding the note in one hand and a muffin in the other, and just let himself breathe for the first time in two days.
He finished his shift first, watching the muffins disappear one by one throughout the afternoon, shared with Brenda and a few customers who asked what the occasion was. He just shrugged and said, “A friend sent them.”
He got home, kicked off his shoes, threw in a load of laundry, and made himself dinner—nothing fancy, just pasta and garlic bread. Comfort food.
His phone sat next to him on the kitchen counter the whole time, taunting him.
He picked it up twice and put it down again.
On the third try, he hit call.
It rang twice before Billy picked up.
“…Hughie?” His voice was cautious. A little breathless. Like maybe he hadn’t expected the call to actually happen.
“Hey,” Hughie said, then leaned against the counter and smiled, just a little. “First of all—how many electronics shops did you send your friend to?”
Billy let out a bark of laughter, all relief and disbelief. “Eight.”
Hughie’s eyebrows shot up. “Eight?”
“He found you by number five,” Billy said, chuckling.
“That’s… weirdly flattering,” Hughie muttered, biting back a grin.
Billy’s voice softened. “You like ’em? The muffins?”
“I do,” Hughie said honestly. “Turns out bribery works on me. Cinnamon especially.”
“Frenchie’s wife made ’em,” Billy said. “She’s the baker at their shop—he owns the place, but she’s the one who does all the hard work.”
“She’s got talent,” Hughie muttered, taking another bite.
“Yeah. Deadly with a knife, sweeter than sin with a whisk. Don’t ask me how it works.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Hughie exhaled slowly. “Listen. I’ve been thinking about what I want. And… I like you, Billy. I really like you. I’d like to see if this could be something.”
Billy didn’t say anything, just let the silence breathe, giving Hughie space to say the rest.
“I’m willing to give us another chance,” Hughie continued, heart racing a little. “But if you’re in this just to get laid, it’s not gonna happen. I’m not that kind of guy.”
Another pause.
Then Billy, voice low, quiet in a way Hughie hadn’t heard before, said:
“I’m good with waiting, sweetheart.”
Hughie swallowed.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Billy echoed. “Next date?”
“There’s this bakery I’ve heard good things about,” Hughie said, pretending like he wasn’t still a little pink in the cheeks. “Apparently they make muffins worth stalking electronics repairmen over.”
Billy snorted. “You want me to take you somewhere Frenchie owns?”
“Free samples, Billy.”
“…Sold.”
“No more bars,” Hughie added. “No more liquid courage. We don’t need it.”
“Not anymore,” Billy said. And Hughie could hear the smile in his voice.