Chapter Text
*
"Hi there! Will you be dining alone today?"
"Um... do you have something a bit more toward the corner?"
"You know how it is, sir— weekends," the host gestured toward the bustling dining room, "but luckily... right this way."
He followed, passing the central dining car booths. The sounds of children playing briefly swept by as they headed straight for a corner table for two, set against a wall adorned with a large stained-glass window.
He pulled out the chair and sat down, placing his travel bag on the other side of the table. His fingers absently brushed over the solid wood surface. A white porcelain plate gleamed on the placemat, and the water glass beside his knife swayed slightly from his movement, sending the ice cubes inside into a soft, musical clink.
This wasn't Connor Storrie's first time in Vancouver. June and July marked the peak of the tourist season, but back then, he had come for the Fraser River's winter fog. The deep river waters and the occasional glimpse of seagulls had made for excellent magazine material. The crowds he encountered then were noticeably sparser than they were now.
Connor tried to convince himself that this rare vacation had simply stirred an unusual nostalgia for the New Westminster Quay. After all, he hadn't yet experienced the summer waterfront charm and outdoor adventures described in Global Travel magazine, nor the skyline bridge and North Shore Mountains under clear skies. Yet, in the end, he could find no good reason to explain why, the moment he landed, he had headed straight for this Old Spaghetti Factory. This realization brought with it an unavoidable sense of embarrassment— and a subtle undercurrent of unease.
"One moment, your server will be right with you—enjoy your meal!"
Connor offered a polite smile in return, his fingertips pressed against the tabletop until they turned white—he was considering leaving, or praying that whatever was coming would at least slow down—a few weekend families passed by his table: couples, children, hikers. He glanced up, sweeping a hurried look through the crowd. He saw nothing. Lucky, yet unfortunate. He wanted another look, but the ice cubes in his glass caught his attention.
The next second, a menu was presented to him. Connor took it reflexively, and beneath it appeared a hand wearing silver rings.
"Hi folks—welcome!"
Ah, there it was—
"I'll be your server today, sir! And by the way, my name is—"
Connor looked up, his gaze immediately meeting those lively, dancing dark eyes. Full lips moved rapidly, and the hair swept back from his forehead was tousled from the rush of work. He had no idea what kind of satisfied smile had spread across his face in that moment, but God, an inner voice within him followed the other's lead effortlessly. Joy swiftly washed over the awkwardness, the doubt, the embarrassment. His own silent thought coalesced into a breath, a perfect echo of the name now being spoken—
"Hudson. Hudson Williams."
*
"——Hudson."
Connor nodded, repeating the name to himself. He had just shed his heavy overcoat, and his exposed skin hadn't yet fully warmed. Hunching his shoulders, he blew a warm breath into his cupped hands.
"Right— not harder to remember than your grandfather's surname, I'd guess." Hudson handed him the menu, his eyes quickly skimming over Connor's flushed skin.
"Bitter out there, huh?"
"We don't recommend cashmere overcoats in Vancouver, especially in this kind of weather—" He made a 'you know how it is' face. "If you're sticking around for a few days, might want to switch to a windbreaker."
Connor looked at him, then offered an awkward smile. "Alright... maybe you're right." He shrugged, the menu still pinched between his fingers. "Actually, I'm leaving tomorrow. I just didn't expect it to be so... damp here?"
"Damp," Hudson echoed with a laugh. Then, as if remembering the same thing at once, they both made a sound—
"Right, the order."
Connor couldn't help but laugh too. He laid the menu open on the table with routine familiarity. Most of the Old Spaghetti Factory's offerings were set meals that included both a main course and dessert. He was a traditionalist in that regard, planning to stick with the signature dishes marked as must-tries. But Hudson's voice came from above him. "First time here?"
Connor looked at him, picking up on that inexplicable hint of eagerness and anticipation in his tone. He hesitated for a moment, then tilted his head slightly toward the dining area behind Hudson. "If I were to ask for your recommendation—would that be okay?"
The other man seemed amused by his cautious demeanor. "Do you know what you're asking? I'm a server." He gestured broadly toward the space behind him. "And—this is my section."
He swept a hand in a rough arc, indicating an area where only one other couple was dining.
"Just for you. Tonight."
Did he even know what he was saying? Connor opened his mouth, only to quickly look away when he met those unambiguously dark eyes. Thank God they had other business to attend to. "Uh... what should I order?"
"Hmm—well, usually we'd give customers the safest bet, you know, the whole 'most popular' routine. But if you ask me—" Hudson tucked one hand behind his back, leaning in slightly. With his other hand, he tapped a spot on the menu. Connor noticed at least three gleaming silver rings on his left hand, each etched with black designs. "Yeah, right here."
"Cream... clam sauce pasta?"
"Uncommon, isn't it?" Hudson straightened up, allowing Connor a clear view of the lively, mischievous expression on his face. "Given the gentleman's brief stay in Vancouver, I thought a fresh experience might leave a deeper impression—do you eat seafood?"
Connor shrugged. "Absolutely."
"As for dessert—Spumoni would suit you, I imagine."
Connor was drawn in by the assured look. He let out an involuntary chuckle, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on his eloquent waiter, anticipating more surprises. "And what about the drinks?"
Hudson raised an eyebrow, and Connor couldn’t help but smile at the glint in his eyes, catching the unmistakably playful challenge in his voice—a kind of daring, intimate overture.
"Have you ever tried ginger ale?"
*
"Sold out?"
"My apologies, sir." Hudson kept his head down, jotting notes on his pad. People flowed in and out of the restaurant, and the indoor temperature was noticeably rising. "And that's entirely on us—the kids aren't big on ginger ale, so we didn't restock in time, even with the tourist season hitting." Connor noticed his slightly labored breathing, unsure if it was from fatigue or apology. Had he been working since six in the morning?
"Oh... no, it's perfectly fine. I'll just have an iced lemon water."
The other man didn't say more—or perhaps he was momentarily distracted—but he quickly picked up that lively, polite smile again. "Of course. Your meal will be right out."
Before Connor could speak again, Hudson had already turned and plunged into serving another table. It wasn't his fault; Connor could well imagine what New Westminster was like in June and July. He simply rested his head in his hand, watching Hudson's back from the corner. The man's black short-sleeved uniform shirt clung damply to his skin. When he leaned over a table, his back curved slightly, and his fingers unconsciously toyed with the gleaming silver rings. His reactions remained sharp—for couples celebrating an anniversary, he knew just which set meal to suggest, offering timely congratulations. With children, his smile widened, and his speech slowed with practiced patience. Would he like kids?
Connor's memory was still fixed on last winter, on that cheerful, familiar waiter under the dim lighting, the fortune-teller who had intuited his preferences and tried to make up for the experience. God, how could he have remembered him for so long? But he couldn't help it. On the flight back from Vancouver to Texas, he'd already forgotten the taste of the cream clam sauce and the ginger ale. But those dark eyes, the restless hair on his forehead, his assured and animated expressions—he had remembered them until today, right up to the moment they overlapped with reality. Thank God. He hadn't changed a bit.
The appetizers arrived promptly. Hudson placed a garden salad closer to Connor's right hand and set a basket of garlic bread near the wall at the edge of the table. As he bent his head to make a note on his pad, Connor watched the tuft of hair that sprang up from his forehead and felt an urge to strike up a conversation—an urge that had been with him all along.
"Need more vinaigrette—"
"—Are you going to be busy all day?"
Hudson looked up at him, and Connor nearly wanted to close his eyes. God knows what I'm saying. "Uh... I mean, business is booming, right?" He glanced away guiltily. Hudson's profile flickered in his peripheral vision. "Lots of tourists today."
Hudson's laughter rang in his ears—soft, momentarily unguarded. Connor looked at him. That face, flushed and upturned from the heat, was just as it had been last winter. "It's been like this lately—are you here as a tourist too?"
No, I'm here to see you. We met once, remember? I don't really miss the cream clam sauce pasta or the ginger ale, and I don't miss Spumoni ice cream either. I miss you. "Uh... as you can see." Connor gestured toward his travel bag on the opposite side of the table. "The Fraser River, the Quay park... you know, someone's got to see them."
"Is that your luggage?" Hudson's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the medium-sized duffel bag. "Seriously, you're planning to stay a few days with just that gym bag?"
"I haven't decided," Connor admitted. He just felt that last time was too short. "I only gave myself a week off. I'm thinking... maybe four or five days?"
Hudson looked momentarily concerned about his section. He swept a quick glance around but stayed put. "It's not easy to extend a stay at hotels around here lately." He studied Connor, asking astutely, "You did book a hotel nearby, right?"
Connor offered a guilty smile. He'd come straight after swapping shifts; hotel rooms by the River Market wouldn't wait for meticulous planning. Everything had been rushed. "Actually—I was planning to head to Coquitlam later. They still have rooms available there."
Hudson wrinkled his nose, looking as if he had more to say, but a colleague passing behind him interrupted. They exchanged a few hushed words.
"—Sorry about that." Hudson made a face at Connor. "Damn job."
*
Nine p.m.
Connor checked his watch. Outside, the darkness was thick, the temperature likely lower than before dinner. He stretched lazily, a yawn tugging at him—today's shooting schedule hadn't been easy, and reason told him he should head back to his hotel soon. But the lighting inside was just dim enough, the lingering scent of cream from his plate still in the air. It was too comfortable. He was almost drifting off.
"—Everything good?"
Hudson's voice, tinged with laughter, snapped him back from the edge of drowsiness. Connor guessed he must have looked rather ridiculous a moment ago. He coughed lightly, trying to make his voice sound less thick. "Absolutely perfect." He looked up at the other's expectant expression, feeling a tiny flutter inside. "Whatever would my Vancouver trip do without you?"
"Yeah, well," Hudson replied matter-of-factly, "flattery won't pay the bill, sweetheart."
Connor blinked. He could hardly deny that his heart had a habit of skipping a beat at Hudson's every other word. Belatedly, he began to appreciate the lighting, which offered at least some cover for his flushed cheeks. In contrast, the other man—always smiling, wearing that unreadable expression. Oh, he was an angel who knew exactly how to use his looks.
"Should I take that as a hint to leave?" Connor took the bill and began fishing for his credit card in his overcoat pocket. "What time do you usually close?"
"Ten-thirty. It's Saturday, you know." Hudson shrugged, taking the credit card from Connor. "Be right back."
He returned swiftly with two receipts. Connor put his card away and bent over to sign them. "Do you always work weekends?" he asked casually, trying hard not to sound too deliberate, even though he knew full well how unusual the question was. "The whole day?"
"I come in when I don't have classes, but—yeah, mostly weekends." Hudson stood by the table with his arms folded, the silver rings on his fingers catching a faint glint of light.
"You're a student?"
"Mhm." Hudson responded absently, but the moment he took one of the receipts, his tone lifted with surprise. "—Ten dollars? Man, you barely ordered anything."
"Ah, yeah, I admit it's on the lighter side." Connor laughed, reaching for his overcoat.
"But given that I'm not exactly rolling in it, you'll have to forgive me."
Hudson gave him a look of amused exasperation. Inside, Connor was delighted to finally see the other man thrown off balance because of him. "No, are you serious? You really don't need to tip that much."
"Consider it a fee for my recommendations, then." Connor stood up, now fully put together. The dampness had nearly gone from his overcoat; he was warm, dry, and content again. Hudson was clearing the dessert plate, the signed receipt still in his hand.
Connor hesitated, took a step forward, and paused. Finally, he couldn't hold back.
"Hudson."
Hudson looked up. His dark eyes held a warm, amber tint under the lights, the stray hairs at his forehead shifting with the movement. His lips pressed into a slight smile, revealing that guileless, expectant expression.
Connor took a deep breath. "If I come here again—"
"—Anytime."
*
As the bowl emptied, the plates and dishes before Connor were cleared away. The final dessert arrived, and the server refilled his now ice-filled glass with more lemon water. Patrons flowed through the restaurant in waves; greetings and farewells rose and fell around him. The dense tapestry of sound felt tedious and hollow in his ears.
Connor deliberately slowed his pace, pretending to savor each moment the ice cream melted on his tongue. The cloying sweetness spread quickly, only to mingle with the bitterness of the lemon water, leaving behind a flat, monotonous aftertaste.
Hudson—Hudson never reappeared.
Connor clenched the spoon between his teeth, the metal feeling rigid against his enamel, a dry, tight sensation spreading through his jaw. He looked up, sweeping his eyes over the dining room for what felt like the hundredth time—from the folding doors at the entrance to the vintage streetcar booth, the massive chandelier tracing a path along the wood-paneled walls plastered with old advertisements, all the way to the kitchen at the back. Jazz music seeped through the gaps in the human chatter. Restlessness began to prickle at him, yet a vague, stubborn premonition held him in his seat, urging him to continue slowly, methodically working through his final dessert.
"—Will there be anything else, sir?"
Connor snapped back to the present. He realized he'd been finished for quite some time. Patrons at the surrounding tables had come and gone in waves, and a line still waited outside. What on earth are you doing, Connor Storrie? He wet his lips nervously, trying to keep the defeat out of his voice. "No, just the check, please."
What followed was a drawn-out process—swiping the card, signing the receipt, calculating the tip—each small action he couldn't help but prolong. As if by slowing time itself, he could stay suspended here forever, convincing himself that if he just waited long enough, something would inevitably happen. Like a child clinging to the hope of an unseen present.
Still—he stood up, smoothing the creases from his clothes. Still, they had met again. Before those dark eyes could fully fade from memory, he had seen for himself that the spark within them remained—brightened now by the restless air of summer and the sharp fizz of lemon soda. Who could say if that was a blessing or a curse?
With a wry smile, Connor leaned across the table to reach for his bag. A hand suddenly intercepted, lifting the heavy strap for him. In the sunlight filtering through the stained glass, the silver rings on that hand flashed with a dazzling glare.
His head snapped up. That vivid face appeared in his view, its fine hairs gilded by the light—one corner of the mouth lifted in that familiar, triumphant, mischievous look.
"Forget about Coquitlam,"
Hudson said, winking at him.
"Come with me."
*
They stepped out of the OSF. The shops lining the River Market were equally boisterous. The scent of garlic bread and cheese still clung to them briefly as they navigated through the crowds and music, Hudson leading, Connor behind. Connor had to raise his voice. "Where are we going?"
Hudson glanced back at him, slowing his pace. "Inn At The Quay!" he called out, then fell into step beside Connor.
"I know the front desk manager there, so—"
His voice suddenly dropped to a lower register. He leaned in closer, his breath, sweet with the lingering trace of cheese, brushing against Connor's cheek, soft and light. "I made a call. Got your reservation bumped to the top of the waitlist—standard room, three nights."
Connor stared at him in disbelief, momentarily at a loss for words. The other man's cheesy breath still hovered near his ear. Connor was sure he must have let every last one of those sparkling, unprecedented bubbles inside him rise to the surface. He shook his head, a wide, helpless grin spreading across his face, and murmured, "If I ever kiss you, Hudson—it won't be my fault."
"Hmm—couldn't agree more," Hudson said with a smile, adopting a look of perfect understanding.
"I can't have my regular sleeping on the street. I'm far too kind—"
Wait, what? Connor stopped walking. A faint, bewildering heat seemed to rise from the short-circuiting depths of his mind. "No, hold on. You... you remember me?"
Hudson turned to look at him, and for some reason, his smile carried a hint of triumphant conspiracy. Those dark eyes narrowed slightly, glinting with a childlike mischief on his angelic face. "—Ginger ale."
"What?"
"No one orders ginger ale at the OSF. Know why?" Hudson tugged Connor along, then paused with deliberate cheekiness.
"Because—it's not even on the menu."
Connor was stunned for a second, then let out a soft, helpless laugh. His face must have been blazing red. Hudson, fighting back a grin, strode ahead, one hand gripping Connor’s duffel bag firmly. He couldn’t resist glancing back to steal a peek at Connor’s expression.
Connor wanted nothing more than to pull him into a tight embrace, to ruffle that hair that was always springing up, to call him my boy, to ask him—you kind-hearted angel, you cunning little devil, Hudson Williams, sprite of my sky—where on earth did you come from?
Connor quickened his pace to catch up. He had a thousand questions, but decided to start with the one right in front of him. "But the ginger ale—I got it last time."
"Yeah—thanks to me." Hudson stuck his tongue out playfully. "I keep a few cans stashed in the back sometimes. My personal work supply."
"Well... do you share your stash with people often?"
"Very few get the privilege," Hudson said, raising an eyebrow at him. "But honestly—everyone should try ginger ale."
"What an honor indeed." Connor met his gaze, saying it with utter sincerity, completely disarmed by the other's unguarded demeanor. A moment later, he laughed as if suddenly remembering something, nudging Hudson's shoulder under his curious look. "So... sold out, huh?"
"—Entirely our fault, sir," Hudson intoned with mock solemnity, putting on a show of deep contrition.
"My apologies. We'll restock promptly."