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Fadel moved through the Heart Burger at closing time with the practiced economy of someone who had done this too many nights in a row. His hands worked automatically – rag over counter, counter to table, table to chrome trim – each motion precise, controlled, a ritual meant to quiet the noise in his head.
The diner was a polished relic of another country and another era. Vinyl booths, chrome stools, a Route 66 poster that hung crooked on the wall, its reds and blues faded into something almost apologetic. American classic rock and blues drifted quietly from the vintage jukebox in the corner.
He liked it that way.
The bell above the door rang. Fadel didn’t turn right away. He already knew.
Style’s scent slid into his space first. As usual, it was warm, sweet, and full of intent. Citrus-bright with smoky vanilla and fresh jasmine undertones that curled through the air and straight into Fadel’s nervous system, tangling themselves there never to leave again.
Fadel exhaled slowly and turned.
Style stood just inside the door, grinning like this was the most natural place in the world for him to be at this hour. He wore a crop top that bared a strip of stomach, skin smooth, grooves and lines of lean muscle catching the diner lights invitingly.
“We’re closed,” Fadel said immediately, voice even, clipped and professional.
“Not so fast, I’m still hungry,” Style quipped and looked like the cat that got the cream. He started to approach, in this careful, almost predatory way that was starkly juxtaposed with his usual mannerisms.
Fadel tried to make himself back up and close off. The Alpha might as well have been wagging its nonexistent tail as it saw the Omega stalk closer. And so he just stood there, watching as Style drew closer and went past him to look at the decor at the counter.
Fadel couldn’t help as his eyes started to wander lower. To the way Style’s rear filled out his beige cargo pants, to the way his underwear poked out from the low-slung waistline. He saw black lace and immediately it was like someone had struck a hammer to his head. He lost his current train of thought completely.
“Seriously?” Style said, sounding delighted. “Wow. This place is real.”
Fadel frowned and swallowed hard. “What does that mean.”
Style stood there with his back to Fadel, hands clasped behind him as he took in the booths, the counter, the stools.
“Like an actual American diner. I thought those were just in movies.” He tapped the nearest booth with his foot. “It’s kind of cute.”
“Style,” Fadel said, sharper now. “You need to leave.”
Style turned – almost twirled – unfazed, smile still firmly in place. “Come on. You’re still cleaning. That means you’re not really closed. Why don’t you treat me?”
Fadel’s eyebrow rose, unimpressed. “In return for what?” he grumbled.
But he could feel the inevitable pull already, the way his attention kept snagging on bare skin, on the omega’s scent blooming deliberately in the confined space. He forced himself to keep moving, to focus on the task at hand.
Style raised his eyebrows back, as if it was obvious. “For fixing your car.”
“Aren’t you shameless?” Fadel scolded. “You rear-ended me and now I’m supposed to feed you?”
“Doesn’t hurt to be generous,” Style said, feigning innocence and batting his eyelashes.
“No service,” Fadel grunted.
“One beer. We have time for that, right?” Style asked cheerfully. “Pretty please.”
“If you want a drink, go to a bar.”
Style tilted his head, eyes bright, and stepped close, so close they could easily kiss. His eyes were sparkling, his voice lilting playfully when he spoke. His scent seemed to wrap itself around Fadel this close. Invitation blatant in every inch of his body.
“But it just isn’t the same, you know? This place has great music…” Style leaned even closer toward Fadel who balled his hands into tight fists. “And a really cool owner with good taste.”
Fadel could only stare at those smirking, full lips like he was possessed by them and dig his nails into his palms. His whole mouth was tingling with anticipation and want. If he let himself move at all, he would comply with the invitation. He knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning.
Then Style suddenly drew away, still smiling smugly, and turned to sit himself down in the booth next to them. Fadel stared at him for a long moment. Style met his gaze without flinching.
Against his better judgment, Fadel fetched a pint from behind the counter. He told himself it was to get Style gone faster.
The first beer went down easy. Style talked the entire time – about the decor, about how Fadel didn’t seem like a diner kind of guy, about how quiet the place felt without customers. Fadel answered in monosyllables or not at all, wiping tables that didn’t need it, keeping distance where he could.
Style ordered another.
Then another.
By the sixth, his laughter came quicker, his movements looser. He leaned forward across the table, chin propped on his hand, eyes tracking Fadel up and down slower now.
“You always this tense? Looks exhausting,” Style sighed, voice soft, the very image of a flirty Omega with his wide eyes, pouting lower lip and cute head tilt. The sight made Fadel’s stomach tighten and his balls tingle.
“I’m fine,” Fadel said through his clenched jaw.
“You know, handsome,” Style whispered – or spoke in a moderate volume more like because he really didn’t seem the type to whisper, ever. “You could relax, just a little. Join me?”
Fadel ignored him, or at least pretended to. And he kept fetching more beer, helplessly trying to keep his icy exterior together against the scent that made him feel stupidly dopey, not knowing what else to do. Screw that, actually, he knew damn well. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
The jukebox kept on playing in the background. The sexy saxophone from a stray jazz track got Style out of the booth and right back into Fadel’s orbit, blowing warm beer breath over Fadel’s mouth.
Style’s right hand reached out.
Fadel caught his wrist instantly.
For a moment, instinct flared, sharp and demanding (throw him onto the table and kiss and bite him all over until he begs for your knot), but Fadel locked it down with practiced precision. He straightened from his subtle lean toward Style, grip firm but controlled, eyes burning cold fire.
“That’s enough,” he growled. “You’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not,” Style whined and tried to dislodge Fadel’s fingers. “Just tipsy. Just enough to make me bold.”
It was like he could sense Fadel’s wavering control, the Alpha raging just beneath the brittle surface of his skin. Style surged closer again, like a tide coming in, merciless.
“If we were at a club, I’d be dancing so close to you, just like this,” he murmured, taking a few swaying steps back and forth, hips gyrating a little with movement knocked loose by alcohol and repressed lust.
Fadel could see it in those twinkling eyes, could smell it in the musky note of Style’s scent that indicated arousal. Fadel wondered whether Style was about to slick through his lace panties.
And when exactly did Style’s hands crawl under his overshirt?
Those smirking lips were producing sound again, and he fought to focus on the words.
“And then I’d whisper in your ears… ‘Do you want to come home with me?’”
Style hooked arms behind Fadel’s lower pack and crashed them together. Not in a kiss (no, Fadel was not disappointed) but in a tight embrace that crushed their heated bodies to each other. Those glimmering eyes, those alluringly full lips were so close again, framed by the scent that was wafting up from the slender throat, from between long slim thighs. Fadel could see Style’s eyes were nothing but pupil, solid black like starless space. He was drawn in, floating, he was suffocating–
What about Bison? What about the job? What does this mean for them?
He didn’t know how, didn’t know why, even, but his hands shot out and pushed. He saw Style’s eyes widening, pupils shrinking in surprise as he slumped down into the booth onto his back and elbows.
“That’s enough,” Fadel barked, and couldn’t understand where the words welled up. “You’ve tested my patience.”
Style shot him a bemused look that quickly changed into offense. He opened his mouth to speak but Fadel talked again and gestured to the doors.
“I’ll send the bill over to your garage. Now go home.”
Style raised his brows, completely unimpressed at his display. “You’re really sending a drunk Omega home alone? No, sir, that won’t do. If you want me to go, give me a ride.”
“You won’t leave, huh?” Fadel muttered and got a smug head shake in answer.
Those eyes were still beckoning. Style parted his legs. It was like someone took Fadel by the pelvis and tugged him in between them, one knee on the seat and almost brushing Style’s crotch. He loomed over the Omega and had a pressing urge to grab him by the hips and make him grind against his knee until his cargo pants were soaked through.
“Still no?” he murmured and his eyes caught on Style’s tongue that poked out to swipe over his lower lip.
“Ye-p,” Style popped the p.
Fadel leaned even closer. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
Fuck how easy it would be to just press their bodies together again. Just forget about everything except the pleasure of connection with someone so physiologically compatible (even Fluke hadn’t felt like this, and Fadel had been head over heels in love with Fluke, but he didn’t want to think about that right now), Khun Mae and her jobs could go to Hell.
And if Fadel had been alone, he just might have given in. But he wasn't. He had a beloved, impulsive, impossible little brother who needed his big brother to have his head on straight about things. Especially now that there was a strange Alpha sniffing around him.
Even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness. Even if it meant pushing away the realest thing he had ever felt after Fluke left him.
So he grabbed onto Style’s thighs (all of the deities save him, how he wanted to just stay between them forever) and watched as satisfaction morphed into surprise and into insulted pride as he yanked Style out of the booth by his legs and started dragging him out of the restaurant. He closed out the Omega’s indignant yapping and the smell that had gone sour with hurt. Tried to, at least.
This had to be done. The Omega would never learn to stay away if he wasn’t firm. He should have done this from the start, for both of their sakes.
The bell rang as he shut and locked the doors, leaving Style raging on the terrace and trying to rip the doors open.
Fadel leaned his forehead briefly against the glass, then turned away before he changed his mind or something equally insane. It felt like tearing a limb off of himself but it had to be done.
“We’ll see!” Style’s enraged voice howled through the walls. “I will make you my boyfriend!”
Fadel was about to retreat into the kitchen to finally resume with actually closing down when his eye caught something under the nearest table. He bent down to pick up a black leather wallet, opened it and was faced with a younger Style’s countenance staring back at him from a driver’s license.
Mr. Sattawat Chayakorn.
Fadel sighed. He knew he had a long, exhausting night of research ahead of him.
***
Mr. Chayakorn did not leave Fadel alone after the research like he had planned. First he thought it was just the net-surfing that had taken most of the night, leaving him tired and crabby the next morning as he headed to a now familiar market to buy groceries for Heart Burger.
He was examining tomatoes when he felt the prickling awareness of being watched. He'd learned to trust that instinct as it had kept him alive more than once. He glanced up, scanning the crowded market floor.
Style of all people was standing three stalls away, holding a skewer of grilled pork and a bag of sticky rice, staring at him with undisguised delight.
Fadel’s jaw tightened. Before he could turn and make his escape, Style had weaved through the crowd toward him, and Fadel's traitorous heart picked up speed as the scent of vanilla and citrus billowed over him like a warm, fluffy cloud.
“Fadel! What a coincidence!” the Omega’s voice was bright, but his eyes held an unmistakable challenge. No wrath worse than an Omega scorned.
“Style.” Fadel went back to examining the tomatoes with intense focus.
“Shopping for the restaurant?”
“Obviously.”
“Mmm.” Style took a deliberate bite of his skewer, making a show of how good it tasted. “These are amazing. Want some?”
“I'm working.”
“Right. Professional conduct and all that.” Style’s tone was airy, but there was an edge to it. “Wouldn’t want to be inappropriate now.”
Fadel’s hands tightened around a tomato.
“You know what’s funny?” Style continued, circling Fadel like a particularly persistent cat. “I thought we had something. But I guess I was just another customer to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fadel said, forcing the words through a tightening throat. If only they weren’t at a public place, he would let Style hear it for desecrating his car.
“No, no, it’s fine. Really.” Style gestured expansively with his skewer. “I should’ve known better than to think the grumpy Alpha who slammed me against his car and scented me was actually interested. Happens all the time.”
Fadel glared at Style, hoping against hope that the Omega would take the hint and skedaddle.
“Oh, is this unprofessional too?” Style’s smile was sharp. “Sorry. I’ll just be on my way. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your very important restaurant owner business.”
He turned to leave, then paused beside a cart stacked high with cabbages and pak choi. “Oops.”
Style bumped the cart hard enough that it rolled forward several inches, directly into Fadel’s path.
“Watch it,” Fadel said, steadying the cart.
“My bad. These market aisles are so narrow.” Style took another bite of his skewer, eyes and scent sparkling in vexation and excitement. “Hard to navigate.”
He bumped it again, this time sending it rolling faster. Fadel caught it, but one wheel hit an uneven patch of ground. The cart tilted.
“Style, stop!” Fadel barked. He didn’t know for the life of him why he wasn’t just walking away.
“Stop what? I’m just walking. It’s a public market.” Style’s hip connected with the cart's side.
The vegetables avalanched.
Cabbages rolled across the wet market floor. Salad leaves scattered like green confetti. A pyramid of tomatoes from another nearby cart caught the edge of the chaos and joined the devastation, red spheres bouncing in every direction.
The market vendor let out a cry of dismay. Shoppers stopped and stared.
Style stood in the middle of it all, still holding his skewer, expression utterly unrepentant.
“Oops,” he said again.
Fadel closed his eyes and counted to five. “You deliberately–”
“Who, me? I’m just a clumsy Omega who doesn’t know his own strength.” Style batted his eyelashes, gaze full of poison. “Must be all that car repair. Built up my muscles.”
The vendor, an elderly Beta man, was rushing over now, hands flailing. “My vegetables! Who’s going to pay for this?”
“He will,” Style pointed at Fadel with his skewer. “He pushed the cart.”
Fadel opened his mouth to protest. “I did not–”
“So aggressive,” Style tsked over him. “Always so tense, Fadel. You should relax more.”
Fadel felt his eye twitch. He pulled out his wallet and handed the vendor enough bills to cover the damage twice over. The vendor counted away, mollified.
They were alone now – or as alone as two people could be in a crowded market with vegetables scattered at their feet and at least a dozen people watching the drama unfold.
“Feel better?” Fadel asked flatly.
“Much better, thank you.” Style took another bite of his skewer. “This has been fun. Same time tomorrow?”
He turned to leave, stepping carefully over a rolling cabbage.
Fadel spotted the hose coiled near the vegetable stall. The one vendors used to spray down produce and clean the floors. He picked it up, tested the nozzle.
“Style.”
Style turned back, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
Fadel turned the hose on the scattered vegetables, spraying them clean. Perfectly reasonable. Helping clean up the mess.
Then he adjusted his aim.
The stream of water hit Style square in the face.
The Omega’s mouth dropped open in shock as water soaked his crop top, his cargo pants, plastered his hair to his forehead. He sputtered and turned his head to scream: "You– you did not just–!”
Fadel maintained eye contact and kept spraying.
“Fadelll!” Style tried to dodge, but Fadel followed his movements. Water sprayed across Style’s shoulders, down his back. “This is– I’m– Goddamnit, stop!”
But he was laughing now, a bright, uncontrollable laugh that made something in Fadel's chest warm despite himself.
“You started it,” Fadel said calmly, still spraying.
“With vegetables! Not water!” Style was fully drenched now, his sticky rice bag abandoned, skewer somehow still clutched in one hand as he tried to shield himself. “This is assault!”
Style made a desperate lunge for the hose. Fadel sidestepped easily, redirecting the spray. Style slipped on a wet cabbage leaf, windmilling his arms. Fadel caught him with his free hand before he could fall, then resumed spraying.
“You’re impossible!” Style gasped, still laughing.
Fadel huffed. “You’re annoying.”
Fadel finally turned off the hose and tossed it aside. They stood there, Style completely soaked and grinning like an idiot, water dripping from his hair onto the market floor. Fadel's own shirt had gotten splashed in the chaos, but Style had definitely gotten the worse end of it.
The market crowd was watching with undisguised entertainment. Someone started clapping. Others joined in.
Style’s cheeks flushed. “You made a scene.”
“I made a scene?” Fadel gestured at the vegetables still scattered across the floor.
“Worth it.” Style wrung out his shirt, water streaming onto the ground.
He looked ridiculous – drenched, still clutching that somehow-intact skewer, smiling at Fadel like he’d just won something. That would mean that Fadel had lost, but he didn’t feel like it at all.