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The baseline hum of Los Angeles on a cool March evening leaks through the windows of the car, but inside, the vibe is pure, unadulterated compatibility. Or so Doug thinks. After hours of bouncing from one topic to the next, trading obscure band trivia and laughing until their sides ache, Doug feels the unmistakable buzz of a perfect date. He pulls the car to a stop outside Peter’s place, the dashboard clock glowing neon blue.
Turning in his seat, Doug doesn’t hesitate. He reads the shared laughter, the lingering glances, and the easy warmth of the night as the ultimate green light. He leans across the console, closing the distance with practiced ease, and presses his lips firmly against Peter’s.
For a second, the world is quiet. Then, Peter freezes.
Peter pulls back, his hands flaring out in a frantic, universal sign for *time-out*. His face is a mask of pure, agonizing awkwardness, his eyes darting toward the glove box as if looking for an escape hatch. "Whoa, hey—Doug, man, wait," Peter stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "I’m—I'm straight. I am completely straight."
Doug blinks, a slow, skeptical smirk spreading across his face. He doesn't buy it for a second. In Doug’s world, a night this effortless doesn't happen between a gay man and a straight man without some underlying chemistry. "Right," Doug says, his tone instantly sharpening, dripping with sudden, defensive vitriol. "Sure you are. Keep telling yourself that, buddy. You spend four hours giving me *that* look, and now you’re playing the straight card? Please."
Despite the sudden venom spitting from Doug, Peter doesn't snap back. He takes a deep, grounding breath, his expression softening into genuine apology. He gently lets Doug down, raising his hands peacefully. "I'm serious, Doug. I’m so sorry if I led you on. I really am. It’s just... I don't have any guy friends."
---
Doug’s defensive posture melts just a fraction, replaced by genuine confusion. He crosses his arms, leaning back against his headrest. "What do you mean you don't have friends?"
Peter sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he explains his predicament. The words tumble out of him, raw and a little embarrassing. "I’m getting married in April. Next month. And my fiancée, Zooey, she has this massive, incredible bridal party. Me? I have nobody. I’m literally trying to make friends right now so I can have actual groomsmen standing up there with me, along with my Best Man. I’m desperate, man. I thought we were just... bro-ing out."
The sheer honesty of the confession defuses the tension entirely. Doug lets out a sharp, sudden laugh, the last remnants of his anger evaporating into the cool night air. The absurdity of a grown man friend-hunting is too funny to stay mad at.
Glancing at Peter’s earnest, stressed-out face, a wicked, half-joking thought pops into Doug's head. He arches an eyebrow, a playful smirk returning. "Well, since I clearly can’t have you... could you at least hook me up with your Best Man?"
Peter blinks, a spark of sudden realization lighting up his eyes. A slow grin spreads across his face. "Actually, yes," Peter replies, shifting into gear. "He’s my brother, Robbie. And he is very, very single."
A few minutes later, Peter unlocks the front door, gesturing for Doug to follow him into the house. The low, familiar cadence of cinematic dialogue echoes from the living room, punctuated by the chic, brassy notes of a jazzy soundtrack. Sitting dead center on the couch is Robbie. He is the quintessential L.A. Gym Bunny—wearing a fitted vintage tee that clings to his gym-sculpted shoulders, his posture relaxed but radiating an easy, confident energy. His attention is absolutely glued to the television screen, where Meryl Streep is currently delivering a scathing monologue. He’s watching The Devil Wears Prada.
Hearing the door click, Robbie tears his eyes away from the screen. A massive, teasing grin breaks across his face the moment he spots Peter walking in with a handsome stranger in tow. "Well, well, well," Robbie draws out the words, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Look who’s back. What’s going on here, Pete? You got yourself a boyfriend?"
"Not quite," Peter says, chuckling as he steps into the living room, gesturing between the two of them. "Doug, this is my brother, Robbie. Robbie, Doug."
Doug’s eyes light up the moment he looks at the screen. "Oh, wait, is this the scene where Miranda explains the history of the cerulean sweater?" he asks, stepping further into the room, instantly charmed.
"Yes! Exactly!" Robbie beams, shifting over on the couch to make room, his entire demeanor lighting up. "It’s literally the best part of the whole movie."
Peter stands by the doorway for a beat, watching the immediate, effortless spark crackle between his brother and his failed date. Even though Peter actually likes the movie too, he recognizes a cue when he sees one. He takes a quiet step backward, offering a small wave. "I’m gonna... head upstairs. Let you guys talk," he says softly, stepping aside completely to let them have their moment.
— — —
The next morning, the bright California sun floods the family kitchen, casting a warm, golden glow over the breakfast table. The rich aroma of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon fills the air. Oswald sits at the head of the table, flipping through the morning paper, while Peter and Joyce mill around the counters. The front door clicks open, and Robbie walks into the kitchen, looking thoroughly content, a soft, uncharacteristic smile playing on his lips.
Oswald doesn't even look up from his newspaper as he casually throws out a line. "So, Robbie. Did you and your new man spend all night sucking cocks?"
It’s delivered with zero malice, a blunt, crass joke that has become a staple of their family dynamic. Everyone at the table knows the routine; Robbie has proudly stated multiple times in the past that the entire reason he is so quick to make friends with guys is because, ultimately, he wants to suck their cocks. It’s his standard operating procedure: fast, physical, and entirely devoid of strings. But instead of the usual witty comeback or a graphic, triumphant confirmation, Robbie just quietly pours himself a cup of coffee. He leans against the counter, a reflective, almost dazed expression taking over his features.
"Actually, no," Robbie says quietly, his voice unusually soft. "We didn't."
Oswald lowers the newspaper, exchanging a bewildered, utterly shocked look with his wife. Joyce pauses mid-pour with the orange juice. The entire kitchen goes dead silent.
"We're... taking it slow," Robbie admits, looking down at his mug with a faint, genuine smile.
To his parents' absolute, jaw-dropping surprise, Robbie begins to explain what actually happened after Peter left them alone on the couch.
"He’s demiromantic," Robbie says, the word feeling new and significant on his tongue.
He explains how, to his absolute shock, Doug operates on a completely different wavelength than anyone Robbie has ever met. While Doug is perfectly comfortable flirting, holding hands, and kissing with any man he finds attractive, he draws a hard, unyielding line right there. He refuses to go any further before sex.
"He told me he needs a real, deep emotional connection first," Robbie murmurs, still trying to process the concept himself.
For a guy like Robbie, who has spent his entire adult life navigating the fast-paced, highly physical L.A. dating scene, this is uncharted territory. He has never experienced a man wanting him—his mind, his personality, his heart—before wanting his body. It’s a total revelation. Instead of feeling rejected, Robbie feels an overwhelming, grounding sense of warmth. Doug doesn't just want a quick hookup; Doug wants to know him.
Right on cue, the hum of an engine sounds in the driveway. Robbie perks up, setting his coffee down. "He's here. We're grabbing smoothies before he hits the gym."
Peter follows his brother to the front door, watching as Robbie steps out onto the porch. Doug is standing by his car, the bright morning sun catching the edges of his hair. He looks relaxed, a soft, easy smile forming the moment he sees Robbie walk out.
There’s no frantic, hyper-sexual urgency between them. Instead, it’s just incredibly cute. Doug steps forward, meeting Robbie halfway on the walkway. He reaches out, his hand slipping naturally into Robbie’s, their fingers intertwining with an easy familiarity that looks like it has been there for years. Doug leans in, planting a gentle, lingering kiss on Robbie’s cheek, making the usually unshakeable gym bunny blush like a teenager.
Watching from the doorway, Peter smiles, realizing that in his chaotic quest to find a groomsman, he might have just helped his brother find something entirely real.