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By four-thirty in the afternoon, Astarion had reached the deeply inconvenient conclusion that agreeing to dinner had been considerably more reckless than agreeing to spend the night with Halsin.
The latter had required very little of him. A sharp smile, a quicker wit, and enough confidence to follow a handsome man home after closing time had always come naturally. There was comfort in that sort of arrangement, particularly when both parties understood the expectations. Two adults enjoyed one another’s company, parted ways the following morning, and carried on without asking questions neither had any desire to answer.
That had been the plan.
It had remained the plan through two weeks of flirting across the bar, through the kiss Halsin had finally given him after closing, and even through the first few moments inside Halsin’s apartment when Astarion had realised precisely how much trouble he had invited upon himself.
It had become considerably less convincing sometime around breakfast.
Perhaps it had been the coffee Halsin had remembered exactly as Astarion liked it despite hearing the order only once. Perhaps it had been the warm plate placed in front of him without ceremony, or the way Halsin had taken his hand across the kitchen island and kissed his knuckles as though tenderness were something offered freely rather than rationed according to what a person had earned.
Or perhaps it had simply been the question.
May I take you to dinner before your shift?
Astarion had agreed before he could examine the impulse too closely. Five o’clock, Halsin had suggested after learning that Astarion began work at six, and Astarion had accepted with the sort of easy confidence that had deserted him approximately twenty minutes after leaving Halsin’s apartment.
Dinner.
The word had occupied an embarrassing amount of space in his thoughts ever since.
He studied himself in the bedroom mirror with the narrowed concentration of a man searching for faults where none had existed five minutes earlier. The black shirt he had finally settled on fit him perfectly, skimming his waist without looking as though it had been selected solely for that purpose. The collar lay open far enough to suggest carelessness but not so far that it crossed into desperation, and the dark fabric offered the ideal contrast against his pale skin and white curls.
It was, objectively, an excellent shirt.
Astarion adjusted one cuff anyway.
He had already tried rolling the sleeves, decided that looked too casual, unrolled them, then reconsidered when the result seemed too formal for dinner before a bartending shift. He had eventually compromised by fastening the cuffs and leaving the top two buttons undone.
Now the cuffs looked severe.
He unfastened one, stared at it, and fastened it again.
“You know,” Karlach called from beyond the bedroom door, “most people only get dressed once.”
“I am dressed.”
“Then why have I seen four different shirts today?”
Astarion ignored her and turned slightly to inspect the line of his trousers. They were dark, fitted, and entirely unsuitable for spending the next several hours behind a bar, which meant he would have to change before his shift. Fortunately, he had left his uniform in the staff room the previous night after going home with Halsin in the same shirt and trousers he had worn while serving him.
A shirt which, Astarion remembered with a sudden and wholly unhelpful rush of warmth, had ended up somewhere on Halsin’s bedroom floor.
He looked away from his own reflection as though it had personally betrayed him.
“Four,” Karlach repeated. “And I’m being generous by not counting the blue one you put on twice.”
“The lighting was inconsistent.”
“The lighting has not changed.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
There was a pause from the living room, followed by the quiet clink of a mug being placed on the coffee table.
“Are you panicking?”
Astarion turned towards the doorway even though Karlach could not see him from where she sat. “I am preparing.”
“You’ve been preparing for nearly an hour.”
“I fail to see how that disproves my point.”
“It proves mine beautifully.”
He sighed, gave his hair one final adjustment, then ruined the effort by dragging his fingers through the front until the curls fell with what he hoped appeared to be natural disorder. The result was acceptable. More than acceptable, actually, although he refused to examine why looking good for Halsin felt different from looking good for a room full of strangers.
Astarion always enjoyed being looked at.
That was hardly new.
What unsettled him was how much he had enjoyed being seen.
He stepped into the living room before that thought could become any more articulate.
Karlach lounged across one end of the sofa in a loose grey sweatshirt, one bare foot tucked beneath her and a mug balanced between both hands. The television was on but muted, abandoned in favour of watching Astarion’s increasingly elaborate preparations with unconcealed amusement.
Her gaze moved over him once, from his polished boots to his deliberately careless hair, and her mouth curved into a smile far too knowing for his comfort.
“There he is.”
“I already dislike that tone.”
“You should.” Karlach took a slow sip of coffee, allowing the silence to stretch while she continued to inspect him. “You look nice.”
“I usually do.”
“You do.”
The immediate agreement robbed his response of some of its intended force. Astarion folded his arms and waited.
Karlach’s eyes softened despite the grin still threatening at the edges of her mouth. “But today is different.”
“Oh?”
“Today is for somebody.”
For the briefest moment, he considered denying it. Then he remembered that she had watched him emerge from his bedroom in three shirts, disappear again, and return in a fourth while pretending each change had been necessitated by some invisible defect in the fabric.
“That accusation lacks evidence.”
“It lacks subtlety,” Karlach corrected. “Evidence, on the other hand, is everywhere.”
“I simply possess standards.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I fail to see why preparing for dinner should suddenly become suspicious.”
“It isn’t dinner.”
Astarion frowned. “It is objectively dinner.”
Karlach’s smile widened. “It’s a date.”
The word landed differently when someone else said it.
He had called it that himself that morning, mostly to tease Halsin. A date? After you have already taken me to bed? Your methods are appallingly disordered. Halsin had smiled, asked whether that meant no, and Astarion had accepted because refusing had never truly occurred to him.
Still, hearing Karlach call it a date made the entire thing feel more official than one hour in a restaurant before work had any right to be.
“It is a meal,” he said, injecting the words with as much dignity as possible, “between two adults who have already established that they enjoy one another’s company.”
“And each other’s bodies.”
“That detail is not presently relevant.”
“It seems pretty relevant.”
“Karlach.”
“All right, all right.” She lifted one hand in surrender, though the laughter remained in her eyes. “A meal between two adults who slept together last night, had morning sex, ate breakfast, and then immediately arranged to see each other again.”
Astarion stared at her.
Karlach’s eyebrows rose. “What?”
“Your interest in my private life is becoming deeply concerning.”
“You walked in this morning wearing his shirt.”
“It was raining.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It had rained previously.”
“And that made your own clothes disappear?”
“They were inconvenient.”
Karlach’s grin turned wicked. “I bet.”
Astarion pinched the bridge of his nose. “I regret ever introducing you to language.”
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you with extraordinary grace.”
She set her mug aside and rose from the sofa, crossing the room before Astarion could retreat. He held still while she reached up and smoothed the collar he had already adjusted at least six times, then tugged one side slightly lower.
“There,” she said.
He looked down. “You changed nothing.”
“I know.”
Karlach’s smile lost its teasing edge. “You just needed someone else to tell you that you look good.”
Something in his chest shifted with embarrassing softness.
Astarion covered it by turning towards the mirror hanging near the front door and checking the collar once more. “I was already aware.”
“Obviously.”
“But your confirmation has been noted.”
“For the record, you look stupidly pretty.”
“I usually do.”
“I know.”
She leaned against the wall and watched as he reached for his coat, then glanced towards the clock above the bookshelf. “You’ve still got twenty-five minutes.”
“The restaurant is twelve minutes away.”
“So you’re leaving thirteen minutes early.”
“I prefer not to rush.”
Karlach made a thoughtful sound. “How long were you planning to stand outside before going in?”
Astarion paused with one arm halfway into his coat.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He pulled the coat on with more force than necessary. “Arriving early demonstrates respect for another person’s time.”
“Arriving twenty minutes early demonstrates fear.”
“I am not afraid of dinner.”
“No,” Karlach agreed far too gently. “Just the part where he might actually like you.”
Astarion’s hand stilled on the lapel of his coat.
For one fleeting second, Karlach looked as though she regretted saying it. Then Astarion lifted his chin, allowing the familiar shield of amusement to settle over his expression.
“My dear, he has demonstrated his appreciation quite thoroughly.”
Karlach did not rise to the bait. “That’s not what I meant.”
He knew.
Unfortunately, she knew that he knew.
Astarion looked towards the door rather than give either of them the satisfaction of naming the distinction between desire and affection. The first had never frightened him. Desire was immediate, predictable, and usually manageable. Even when it became inconvenient, it followed rules he understood.
Affection was another matter entirely.
Halsin had watched him in bed as though every involuntary sound were a gift. He had asked what Astarion wanted and listened to the answer. He had held him afterwards without trapping him, made breakfast without assuming he would stay, and invited him to dinner without treating the previous night as either a mistake or an obligation.
Astarion was not certain what to do with a man who made wanting him appear so uncomplicated.
“I’m leaving,” he announced.
Karlach nodded, mercifully allowing the subject to pass. “Have fun.”
“I fully intend to.”
“And try not to analyse everything he says.”
Astarion opened the door. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You absolutely do.”
He stepped into the hallway before she could add anything worse.
“And Astarion?”
He looked back.
Karlach smiled. “It’s okay to be excited.”
He rolled his eyes and closed the door, but the words followed him all the way downstairs.
The restaurant Halsin had chosen was three streets from the bar, close enough that Astarion could reach work in less than five minutes but far enough from the main road to avoid the worst of the evening crowds. A small brass sign hung above the entrance, and warm light spilled through tall windows onto the pavement.
It was not extravagant.
Astarion noticed that first, though not with disappointment. The place was elegant without trying too hard: dark wood, soft lighting, linen napkins that had not been folded into anything ridiculous, and just enough space between the tables to preserve the illusion of privacy.
Halsin had chosen somewhere quiet.
Of course he had.
Astarion slowed as he approached, then immediately resented himself for doing so. He checked the time on his phone.
4:53.
He was seven minutes early.
Karlach could never know.
He considered walking past the entrance and circling the block, but the idea was so transparently absurd that even he refused to indulge it. Instead, he stepped inside and gave his name to the woman at the front.
“Halsin’s reservation?” she asked with a smile.
Astarion’s stomach performed a small, treacherous movement.
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t arrived yet, but your table is ready.”
Naturally he had made a reservation.
Naturally the reservation was under his own name rather than leaving Astarion to announce to a stranger that he was meeting someone he had slept with less than twenty-four hours earlier.
The hostess led him to a table beside the window. Astarion removed his coat, sat, then immediately reconsidered his position and moved to the chair with the better view of the entrance.
This was not nervousness.
It was strategic awareness.
He opened the menu and read the same first line three times without absorbing a word.
One-night stands were simple.
There were established rhythms to them, an easy pattern of interest, seduction, satisfaction, and departure. Even when the people involved decided to repeat the experience, the arrangement could remain comfortably confined to physical desire.
First dates, on the other hand, existed for the express purpose of discovering whether two people might want something beyond that.
Astarion had spent years perfecting the art of being desirable. He could read a room before entering it, identify what someone wanted within minutes, and adjust the angle of his smile accordingly. Behind the bar, with his hands occupied and polished wood separating him from the person on the other side, he had never struggled to control a conversation.
But Halsin had already seen him without the performance.
Not entirely, perhaps. Astarion had retained enough wit to defend himself through even the most undignified moments of the night. Still, Halsin had witnessed pleasure strip away several carefully maintained layers and had regarded the person beneath them with the same unmistakable interest.
That should have made tonight easier.
It did not.
The restaurant door opened.
Astarion looked up too quickly.
A couple entered together, neither of them Halsin.
He returned his attention to the menu with exaggerated calm.
Ridiculous.
He was thirty years old. He had gone to dinners far more intimidating than this one, with people richer, crueler, and infinitely more difficult to impress. He had charmed managers, customers, landlords, and once an exceptionally unpleasant immigration officer who had appeared personally offended by Astarion’s existence.
One quiet dinner with a man who had already seen him naked should not have been capable of—
The door opened again.
This time, Halsin stepped inside.
He was one minute early.
Astarion knew this because the clock on the wall above the restaurant bar read 4:59, though he would later deny having noticed.
Halsin paused near the entrance while the door closed behind him. He wore dark trousers and a deep green shirt beneath a brown coat, the colour bringing warmth to his skin and making Astarion briefly forget every coherent thought he had assembled over the last hour. His hair was pulled back loosely at the nape, though several strands had escaped around his face, and the clean line of his jaw made his smile impossible to miss when his eyes found Astarion across the room.
There was no hesitation.
No polite sweep of the restaurant.
Halsin looked at him immediately, as though Astarion were the only person he had expected to see.
The smile that followed was quiet, warm, and devastating.
Astarion understood, with sudden clarity, why people made such dreadful decisions in the name of romance.
Halsin thanked the hostess and crossed the room. Only when he reached the table did Astarion notice the small bundle of flowers in one hand: not an extravagant arrangement, but a loose collection of pale roses, greenery, and tiny white blossoms wrapped in brown paper.
Astarion stared at them.
Halsin’s expression shifted with the first hint of uncertainty Astarion had seen from him. “Too much?”
The question loosened something in Astarion’s chest.
“No,” he said, and was irritated by how quiet the answer sounded. He recovered quickly enough to add, “Although I had not realised dinner came with ceremonial offerings.”
Halsin’s smile returned. “I saw them on the way.”
“How spontaneous of you.”
“I may have chosen the shop in advance.”
Astarion reached for the flowers, careful not to crush the paper between his fingers. They smelled faintly sweet, clean rather than cloying.
No one had ever brought him flowers before.
The thought arrived uninvited and settled too close to something painful.
He turned the bouquet slightly, examining the greenery as though he possessed expertise in the subject. “You realise I have to work after this.”
“I do.”
“And now I must spend the entire shift protecting these from drunk customers.”
“I have faith in you.”
“You shouldn’t. I can be remarkably neglectful.”
“I have seen little evidence of that.”
Astarion lifted his eyes.
Halsin held his gaze without attempting to soften the sincerity behind the words.
For once, Astarion had no immediate response.
He placed the flowers carefully on the empty chair beside him. “Sit down before you become unbearable.”
Halsin obeyed, removing his coat and taking the chair opposite. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Long enough to begin questioning my judgement.”
“And your conclusion?”
“Still pending.”
Halsin’s low laugh slipped easily through the space between them. “Then I shall try to improve my case.”
“You have approximately fifty minutes.”
“I chose somewhere close.”
“I noticed.”
“I did not want you to feel rushed.”
Astarion glanced around the restaurant again, taking in the soft light and relatively empty tables. It was early for dinner, which had likely been intentional as well.
“You’ve planned this rather thoroughly.”
“I wanted it to be pleasant.”
“It already is.”
The words escaped before he could dress them in irony.
Halsin’s eyes softened.
Astarion looked down at the menu. “Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one that suggests I have said something charming.”
“You did.”
“I assure you, it was accidental.”
“Then I will treasure the rarity.”
A server approached before Astarion could retaliate, setting water on the table and asking whether they would like something to drink. Halsin glanced towards him first.
Astarion appreciated the gesture more than he should have.
“A glass of the Sancerre,” he said after a brief look at the wine list. “And water. I am working.”
Halsin ordered the same, though Astarion suspected he would have chosen bourbon under different circumstances.
When they were alone again, Astarion rested one hand against the menu without opening it. “No bourbon?”
“I thought I might try something different.”
“How brave.”
“I have recently discovered the benefits.”
The answer was shameless enough to make Astarion smile despite himself.
“You have been practising.”
“I had an excellent teacher.”
“Flattery before dinner? Desperate.”
“Is it working?”
“Moderately.”
Halsin leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with the assessment. “You look beautiful.”
There it was.
No clever lead-in. No playful qualification to make the compliment easier to dismiss.
Astarion’s fingers tightened slightly against the menu.
He had been called beautiful often enough that the word should have lost any power to unsettle him. Customers said it when they wanted an extra measure of whiskey, strangers used it as an opening line, and lovers whispered it against his skin as though the observation entitled them to something.
Halsin said it like a fact he expected nothing for naming.
Astarion tilted his head. “I spent nearly an hour achieving what you have so carelessly reduced to one word.”
“Then I should be more specific.”
“That would be wise.”
Halsin considered him with such open attention that Astarion almost regretted the invitation.
“The black suits you,” he said. “Though I prefer your hair like this.”
“Like what?”
“A little less controlled.”
Astarion touched the front of one curl before realising what he was doing. “It is entirely controlled.”
“Of course.”
“You are dangerously close to insulting me.”
“I would never.”
“You laughed.”
“I am enjoying you.”
The words struck with precisely the same quiet force as they had in bed.
Astarion lowered his hand. “You make that sound very simple.”
“Is it meant to be difficult?”
For Halsin, perhaps not.
Astarion looked at the water glass between them and traced one finger lightly around the base. He could have made a joke. Usually he would have. Instead, he found himself considering the question seriously.
“Most people complicate it.”
“I am not most people.”
“No,” Astarion murmured. “I had noticed.”
Their wine arrived before the silence could become uncomfortable. Halsin lifted his glass when the server left.
“To pending conclusions.”
Astarion touched his glass to Halsin’s. “And improved cases.”
The first sip settled some of the restless energy beneath his skin. Not because he needed the alcohol—he had no intention of becoming anything less than perfectly composed before work—but because the familiar ritual gave his hands something to do.
They ordered shortly afterwards, choosing dishes that could arrive quickly enough to spare Astarion from beginning his shift on an empty stomach. Halsin selected roasted salmon with vegetables. Astarion ordered pasta in a cream sauce and ignored the delighted lift of Halsin’s eyebrows.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are looking at my order.”
“I am.”
“As though it has revealed something significant.”
“I was told at breakfast that my cooking had made returning to your own bed disappointing. I was curious whether you always ate so well.”
“Your cooking was acceptable.”
“You finished everything.”
“I was exhausted.”
“And hungry.”
Astarion gave him a long look. “Entirely your fault.”
Halsin’s mouth curved around the rim of his glass. “I accept responsibility.”
The heat that climbed Astarion’s neck had little to do with the wine.
He glanced towards the nearest tables, though no one appeared to be listening. “You are remarkably bold outside the privacy of your apartment.”
“I seem to recall being bold in your bar as well.”
“You sat in the same chair and ordered bourbon for two weeks.”
“I was patient.”
“You were staring.”
“I was appreciating.”
“Without subtlety.”
“I did not think subtlety would interest you.”
Astarion could hardly argue.
He took another sip of wine and allowed his gaze to linger on Halsin’s hands. They rested loosely beside his plate, broad and relaxed, and the sight summoned several vivid memories that had no place in a restaurant shortly before work.
Halsin noticed.
Naturally.
“You are staring now.”
Astarion lifted his eyes without shame. “I am assessing.”
“And your conclusion?”
“That remains private.”
“Still pending?”
“Some portions of the evidence were extremely persuasive.”
Halsin’s smile deepened, but he did not push further. That, more than anything, made the flirtation feel different from the countless conversations Astarion had had with interested customers. Halsin met every challenge without attempting to win. He seemed content simply to remain in the exchange, enjoying each reaction without turning it into a contest.
It was disarming.
Dinner arrived quickly, and for several minutes they spoke about easier things. Halsin asked about the bar—not merely whether Astarion enjoyed working there, but what had drawn him to cocktails in the first place.
The question surprised him.
“People assume bartending is mostly pouring drinks,” Astarion said as he wound pasta around his fork. “Which is rather like saying cooking is merely applying heat to food. Technically accurate and entirely useless.”
Halsin listened with his full attention, his own meal momentarily forgotten.
“A good cocktail has structure,” Astarion continued. “Balance. Each ingredient should do something, even if the person drinking it cannot identify precisely what. Too much sweetness becomes tedious. Too much acid turns unpleasant. Spirits without anything to soften them are often less impressive than the people ordering them believe.”
“Is that why you changed my bourbon?”
“It was becoming repetitive.”
“You had served me twice.”
“Precisely. A pattern had already formed.”
“And the Gold Rush?”
Astarion glanced up. “You liked bourbon. Honey seemed appropriate.”
“Why?”
“You appeared as though you required softening.”
Halsin laughed, the sound warm enough to make Astarion’s mouth curve in answer. “Did it work?”
“The results remain under observation.”
“I thought you had been persuaded.”
“Temporarily.”
“Then I shall continue making my case.”
Astarion lowered his gaze to his plate before Halsin could see quite how much he enjoyed that answer. “And what do you do when you are not occupying my best barstool?”
“I work at a community health centre.”
Astarion paused. “As?”
“A physiotherapist.”
The information suited him so perfectly that Astarion nearly resented it. Of course Halsin had chosen a profession built around patient attention, broad hands, and making other people feel better.
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
“A physiotherapist.”
“Yes.”
Astarion looked pointedly at Halsin’s hands again. “That feels almost unfair.”
Halsin’s eyes brightened with amusement. “You disapprove?”
“On the contrary. I am merely acknowledging that the universe has given you an unreasonable number of advantages.”
“I had not realised my profession was one of them.”
“It is now.”
Halsin shook his head, smiling as he cut into his salmon. “I mostly work with long-term injury recovery and older patients.”
The warmth in his voice shifted as he explained it, becoming quieter and more thoughtful. He spoke about helping people regain movement after accidents, about the frustration of slow progress and the importance of making patients feel that small improvements mattered. He did not romanticise the work. He admitted that it could be exhausting, that some days ended with more setbacks than successes, but the care beneath every word was unmistakable.
Astarion watched him.
He had expected Halsin to be kind. Anyone capable of paying attention the way Halsin did in bed was unlikely to become careless outside it. But this was something deeper than general decency. Halsin did not simply enjoy helping others; he had built his life around it.
“You like being needed,” Astarion said.
Halsin considered the observation rather than denying it. “Sometimes.”
“That can be dangerous.”
“It can.”
Most people would have defended themselves. Halsin merely acknowledged the truth.
Astarion rested his fork against the edge of his plate. “And when someone does not want your help?”
“I do not force it upon them.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Something inside Astarion went very still.
Halsin seemed to notice the change in him, though he made no attempt to reach across the table or ask what he had done wrong. He waited.
It would have been easy to move away from the subject. Astarion had several jokes prepared for precisely that purpose, each sharp enough to restore the safer rhythm of flirtation.
Instead, he asked, “Even when you think they need it?”
“Especially then.”
Halsin’s voice remained gentle, but there was nothing uncertain about it.
“Help that ignores what the other person wants is usually about the person offering it,” he continued. “Not the one receiving it.”
Astarion looked down at his wine.
The restaurant moved quietly around them: cutlery against plates, low conversation, the muted sound of traffic beyond the windows. Nothing had changed, and yet the space between them felt different.
Halsin did not ask why the answer mattered.
Astarion was grateful enough to dislike him for it.
“You are very inconvenient,” he said at last.
“So I have been told.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Not in those exact words.”
Astarion raised his eyes again. “I suspect most people find you reassuring.”
“Some do.”
“And the others?”
“Find me too earnest.”
“I can understand that.”
Halsin smiled. “Do you?”
“Deeply.”
“Yet you came.”
“You had already bribed me with breakfast.”
“And flowers.”
“I discovered those after arriving. They cannot be entered into the original calculation.”
“Then why did you come?”
The question was asked lightly, but Astarion felt the weight beneath it.
He could have said because you are attractive. True, certainly, but incomplete. He could have blamed curiosity, proximity, or the fact that the restaurant stood conveniently close to work.
Instead, he thought of waking with Halsin’s arm around his waist. Of the immediate stillness when Astarion admitted he was sore, followed by patient care rather than disappointment. Of coffee remembered, food prepared, and a kiss pressed to his knuckles.
“Because I wanted to,” he said.
Halsin’s expression softened.
Astarion pointed his fork at him. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
“My apologies.”
“You are not sorry.”
“No.”
At least the man was honest.
They returned to their food, but the conversation did not retreat entirely to safer ground. Halsin asked about Astarion’s life beyond the bar, and Astarion surprised himself by answering more than he intended. He spoke about Karlach, though he omitted the fact that she had spent the afternoon diagnosing him with feelings. He described the tiny apartment they shared, the neighbour upstairs who practised the same six notes on a violin every Sunday, and the collection of wine glasses Astarion had accumulated despite rarely drinking at home.
In return, Halsin told him about the plants filling his apartment, several of which had been rescued from neighbours who had nearly killed them through overwatering.
“The tragic one by the window?” Astarion asked.
“Dormant.”
“Dying.”
“Resting.”
“Denial will not save it.”
“Patience might.”
“You apply that philosophy to everything, don’t you?”
“When it seems useful.”
Astarion studied him over the edge of his glass. “And what exactly are you being patient about now?”
Halsin met his gaze.
“You.”
The restaurant seemed suddenly too warm.
Astarion set his glass down with deliberate care. “We have known each other for two weeks.”
“And one night.”
“One very eventful night.”
“True.”
“You cannot possibly know that patience will be required.”
Halsin’s mouth curved, but his expression remained serious. “You nearly left my bed this morning because staying felt too domestic.”
Astarion stared at him.
“I was asleep.”
“You were pretending.”
“That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You became very still after checking the time.”
“I was contemplating my schedule.”
“You were not working until six.”
“I have responsibilities beyond employment.”
“I am sure you do.”
The quiet amusement in Halsin’s voice was unbearable, mostly because it contained no triumph. He was not celebrating having caught Astarion in vulnerability. He was merely acknowledging something both of them already knew.
Astarion leaned back in his chair. “You are disturbingly observant.”
“I enjoy learning you.”
The words landed with enough force to silence him.
Not figuring you out. Not understanding you, as though Astarion were a problem to be solved.
Learning.
An ongoing act. Something requiring attention without assuming completion.
Astarion looked at Halsin across the table and wondered whether the man understood the effect he had.
Judging by the softness in his eyes, perhaps he did.
“You should be careful,” Astarion said.
“With what?”
“Saying things like that.”
“Why?”
“I might begin to believe you.”
Halsin did not look away. “I would prefer that you did.”
The same answer as that morning.
Astarion had escaped it then by kissing him.
Now they were separated by a table, two half-finished plates, and enough public space to make that solution impractical.
He reached for his wine instead.
Halsin, mercifully, allowed the conversation to drift. They discussed music, discovered a shared dislike of excessively crowded clubs, and argued over whether cocktails named after sexual positions had ever been amusing. Astarion insisted the problem lay in poor execution rather than the concept itself; Halsin maintained that no amount of craftsmanship could redeem ordering a Screaming Orgasm in public.
“You lack imagination,” Astarion said.
“I prefer drinks that do not require an explanation to the server.”
“You ordered bourbon every night for two weeks.”
“And it brought me here.”
Astarion considered that.
“A compelling defence.”
By the time the plates were cleared, the clock above the restaurant bar read 5:39.
Astarion had twenty minutes before his shift officially began and considerably less before he needed to change. He disliked how quickly the hour had passed.
Halsin noticed him glance at the time. “We should go.”
The readiness of the offer irritated him, though he knew that was unfair. Halsin had chosen the restaurant specifically to ensure Astarion would not be late and had never once made him feel that work was an inconvenience.
“Yes,” Astarion said, then added, “Unfortunately.”
Halsin’s eyebrows lifted.
“The meal was acceptable,” Astarion clarified.
“Only the meal?”
“I am still assessing the company.”
“Of course.”
Halsin signalled for the bill before Astarion could reach for it. When the server placed the receipt on the table, Astarion glanced at the total and immediately reached for his wallet.
Halsin’s hand settled over the leather folder first.
“You invited me,” Astarion said.
“I did.”
“That does not automatically make me incapable of paying.”
“I know.”
“Then remove your enormous hand.”
Halsin did not. “May I take care of dinner?”
The question softened the protest before Astarion could give it shape.
Not I’m paying. Not a performance of generosity that left no room for refusal.
May I?
Astarion leaned back. “You may.”
“Thank you.”
“You are thanking me for allowing you to spend money.”
“I am thanking you for letting me do something I wanted to do.”
“Again,” Astarion said, “deeply inconvenient.”
Halsin paid while Astarion retrieved his coat and the flowers. The bouquet looked almost absurdly delicate in his hands, pale petals against black fabric. He could already imagine Karlach’s expression when he returned home with them.
Perhaps he would lie.
Perhaps he would claim the restaurant had been distributing flowers to customers for promotional purposes.
Karlach would believe that for approximately half a second.
Outside, the air had turned cooler. The rain from the previous night had washed the streets clean, leaving the pavement dark and reflective beneath the first glow of evening lights. Halsin walked beside him without crowding, close enough that their sleeves brushed occasionally.
Astarion became aware of every contact.
He also became aware that Halsin had not attempted to take his hand.
The restraint should have relieved him.
Instead, after half a block, it began to feel strangely disappointing.
He glanced sideways. Halsin was looking ahead, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, apparently content to let Astarion decide what this part of the evening became.
Patience.
Infuriating, apparently endless patience.
Astarion shifted the flowers into one arm and reached across the small distance between them.
Halsin looked down as their fingers touched.
For one terrible second, Astarion considered pretending it had been accidental.
Then Halsin turned his hand, allowing their palms to meet, and threaded their fingers together.
The gesture was warm, steady, and so ordinary that it unsettled Astarion more than anything they had done in bed.
He had expected possessiveness from a man Halsin’s size. A hand at the small of his back, perhaps, or an arm around his waist. Something physical enough to announce intention to anyone watching.
Instead, Halsin simply held his hand.
Astarion looked towards the shop windows as they passed, catching their reflection in the dark glass. Halsin towered beside him, broad and calm in his brown coat, while Astarion walked at his side carrying flowers like something out of an embarrassingly sentimental film.
He should have found the image ridiculous.
He did not.
“You’re quiet,” Halsin said.
“I am occasionally capable of it.”
“I had wondered.”
Astarion squeezed his hand in warning. “Do not ruin the moment.”
Halsin’s thumb brushed once across his knuckles. “I did not realise we were having one.”
“Neither did I.”
The honesty escaped before he could prevent it.
Halsin did not comment, though the pressure of his hand changed slightly around Astarion’s.
They reached the alley leading towards the bar too quickly. The staff entrance stood at the far end, hidden beside the bins and entirely lacking in romantic atmosphere. Astarion stopped before they turned into it, unwilling to end the evening beneath the flickering security light beside a stack of empty beer crates.
Halsin stopped with him.
“You have time?” he asked.
“Several minutes.”
“Enough to change?”
“I am very efficient.”
“I remember.”
Astarion gave him a look that only encouraged the small smile forming on Halsin’s mouth.
“You have become smug,” he said.
“I have had an excellent afternoon.”
“Has your case improved?”
“Only you can determine that.”
Astarion looked down at their joined hands, then back at Halsin.
The date had been less frightening than he had expected.
That was not entirely true.
It had frightened him in ways he had failed to anticipate. Not because the conversation had gone badly or because Halsin had asked for too much, but because everything had been easy. There had been no awkward silence to rescue, no demand disguised as interest, no moment in which Astarion had felt compelled to become brighter, sharper, or more desirable than he already was.
Halsin had simply sat across from him and enjoyed his company.
Astarion had enjoyed his in return.
That simplicity contained more risk than any one-night stand.
“I have reached a preliminary conclusion,” Astarion said.
Halsin waited.
“Your case is persuasive.”
“Preliminary?”
“I refuse to make permanent decisions on insufficient evidence.”
“A sensible policy.”
“You will need to provide more.”
“I would be happy to.”
The answer came so readily that Astarion’s stomach tightened.
He tilted his head. “Are you asking me on a second date before the first has technically ended?”
“I am expressing interest in one.”
“How restrained.”
“I can ask properly, if you prefer.”
Astarion considered making him do it. The temptation to watch Halsin state his intentions with complete sincerity was considerable.
Instead, he stepped closer, releasing Halsin’s hand only so he could curl his fingers into the front of his coat.
“I prefer this,” he said.
Then he kissed him.
Halsin’s hands settled at Astarion’s waist without pulling him closer until Astarion leaned in of his own accord. The kiss was warm and unhurried, softened by the public street and the flowers trapped awkwardly between them.
There was no desperation in it.
No hunger sharpened by two weeks of restraint.
Just the quiet certainty of being kissed by someone who expected to see him again.
Astarion felt it everywhere.
When he drew back, Halsin’s eyes remained closed for half a second longer. The sight pleased Astarion enough to restore some of his usual confidence.
“Well,” he murmured. “You appear satisfied.”
Halsin opened his eyes. “Very.”
“You are remarkably easy to impress.”
“I would not say that.”
“No?”
“No.” Halsin’s hand remained at his waist, warm even through the layers of fabric. “Only honest when I am.”
Astarion looked at him for a moment.
Then, because the softness gathering inside him required immediate containment, he straightened Halsin’s collar despite the fact that nothing was wrong with it.
“You may take me to dinner again.”
Halsin’s smile spread slowly. “May I?”
“Somewhere with better wine.”
“You chose the wine.”
“Precisely. I should not have been required to rescue the evening myself.”
“I shall do better.”
“You will.”
“When are you free?”
The practical question almost made Astarion laugh. He had expected some vague promise to arrange it later, perhaps a text sent after several days of strategic distance.
Halsin apparently possessed no interest in games.
“Sunday,” Astarion said. “I finish at four.”
“Then Sunday.”
“At a reasonable hour this time.”
“Seven?”
Astarion considered. “Seven-thirty.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“And no health-food restaurant.”
“I was not planning one.”
“I saw the contents of your refrigerator.”
“You ate cinnamon French toast in my kitchen.”
“Under duress.”
“You asked for another piece.”
“I was recovering.”
Halsin laughed, and Astarion decided he liked being the cause of that sound far too much.
His phone vibrated in his coat pocket. A message from the manager flashed across the screen asking whether he had arrived.
“Duty calls,” he said with a sigh.
Halsin released him, though not before pressing one final kiss to his forehead.
Astarion froze.
The gesture was brief, almost thoughtless.
It was also far more intimate than the kiss they had just shared.
Halsin seemed to realise only after he had done it. His expression shifted with uncertainty. “Was that—”
Astarion caught the front of his coat again and pulled him down for another kiss, shorter this time but considerably less gentle.
When he released him, Halsin looked pleasantly stunned.
“That,” Astarion said, “was your warning not to become timid now.”
Understanding warmed Halsin’s face. “Noted.”
Astarion stepped back, adjusting his own coat as though he had not just reacted to a forehead kiss with the emotional stability of a startled animal.
“I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Sunday,” Halsin agreed. Then his eyes moved towards the bouquet. “Will the flowers survive the bar?”
“No.”
Halsin laughed.
“But,” Astarion added, “I will.”
The words felt more significant than intended.
Halsin seemed to hear the meaning beneath them, though he only nodded. “I am glad.”
Astarion held his gaze for one final moment before turning towards the staff entrance.
He could feel Halsin watching him walk away.
Usually, Astarion would have exaggerated the movement of his hips for the benefit of the audience.
This time, the smile he failed to suppress was performance enough.
The bar had settled into the brief lull between its afternoon trade and the evening rush when Astarion entered through the back, carrying the flowers in one hand and attempting to arrange his expression into something appropriately indifferent.
He had almost succeeded by the time he reached the staff room.
Almost.
Jenevelle stood beside the lockers applying dark lipstick in the small mirror attached to the wall. Her eyes moved from Astarion’s face to the bouquet, then returned to his face with a slowness that immediately became offensive.
“No,” Astarion said.
“I haven’t spoken.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask whether someone died.”
He looked down at the pale roses. “Why would these imply death?”
“Because flowers showing up here usually mean a funeral, an apology, or an affair.”
“This is none of those.”
Jenevelle capped the lipstick. “Then what are they?”
“Flowers.”
“Thank you. I was struggling.”
Astarion opened his locker and placed the bouquet carefully on the top shelf, then reconsidered when he noticed the cleaning spray stored beside it.
Jenevelle watched in silence as he searched the room for a safer location.
“There’s a vase under the sink,” she said eventually.
“I do not require assistance.”
“There’s still a vase under the sink.”
Astarion found it, rinsed away a layer of dust, and filled it with water. By the time he had arranged the flowers on the narrow shelf above the lockers, Jenevelle was leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
“They’re nice,” she said.
“They’re acceptable.”
“Who gave them to you?”
“A customer.”
Her eyebrows rose. “A customer took you to dinner before work?”
Astarion turned slowly. “How did you know about dinner?”
“You’re wearing date trousers.”
He looked down at himself.
“That is not a category.”
“It is now.”
Before he could formulate a suitable response, his phone vibrated again.
He expected another impatient message from his manager.
Instead, Halsin’s name appeared on the screen.
Astarion had entered the number that morning while standing in Halsin’s kitchen, mostly because Halsin had handed him the phone and waited until he did. They had exchanged only two messages since: Halsin sending the restaurant address, and Astarion replying that he was capable of locating a building without assistance.
The new message contained a single line.
Thank you for dinner. I am already looking forward to Sunday.
Astarion read it twice.
Then a third time, although the words had not changed.
Jenevelle leaned slightly towards him. “Is that the customer?”
“No.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Astarion locked the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket. “You should concern yourself with your own romantic disasters.”
“I don’t have any.”
“How dull.”
She glanced towards the flowers again. “What’s his name?”
Astarion reached for the buttons of his black shirt. “You are remarkably intrusive today.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“I am changing for work.”
“That is also not an answer.”
He removed the shirt and folded it rather than dropping it into the locker. The fabric still carried the faintest trace of the cologne he had chosen after forcing Karlach to compare two options.
Then he reached for his uniform: a crisp white shirt and the fitted dark waistcoat he wore behind the bar. He buttoned the shirt, rolled the sleeves neatly to his forearms, and fastened the waistcoat over it.
“Halsin,” he said at last.
Jenevelle’s expression sharpened with recognition. “The bourbon man?”
Astarion paused with his fingers on the final button of his waistcoat. “Why do you call him that?”
“Because he ordered bourbon every night and stared at you like you were the only person in the room.”
“He did not stare.”
“He absolutely stared.”
“He was appreciating.”
The word left Astarion’s mouth in Halsin’s voice.
Jenevelle noticed.
Her smile became intolerable.
“Oh,” she said.
Astarion fastened the final button. “Do not.”
“You like him.”
“I slept with him.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Astarion went very still.
Somewhere, Karlach was undoubtedly experiencing a wave of vindication without understanding why.
Jenevelle laughed under her breath and returned to the mirror. “Your life is becoming embarrassingly predictable.”
“My life is never predictable.”
“You slept with the attractive regular who had been flirting with you for two weeks, and now he’s bringing you flowers.”
“It has been less than twenty-four hours.”
“And you already have another date.”
Astarion smoothed the front of his waistcoat with unnecessary precision. “Sunday.”
Jenevelle’s reflection grinned at him.
“I hate both of you,” he said.
“Karlach knows?”
“She witnessed an entirely reasonable amount of preparation.”
Jenevelle turned away from the mirror. “How many shirts?”
“That is not relevant.”
“How many?”
Astarion stared at her.
Her eyebrows rose expectantly.
“Four,” he admitted.
Jenevelle reached for her phone.
Astarion narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Texting Karlach.”
He lunged for the phone, but she stepped easily out of reach and disappeared through the door, laughing.
He considered following.
Then his own phone vibrated once more.
And for the record, Halsin had written, the black suited you.
Astarion stared at the message.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard while he considered several possible answers. Most were too eager. One was too dismissive. Another implied an invitation he did not have time to fulfil before Sunday.
Finally, he typed:
I know. Try not to spend the entire weekend thinking about it.
The reply arrived before he had put the phone away.
I make no promises.
Astarion smiled.
This time, no one was in the room to accuse him of it.
He glanced towards the flowers resting above the lockers, pale petals opening beneath the harsh staff-room light. They did not belong there. They were too soft for the chipped paint, metal doors, and permanent scent of cleaning products.
He liked them anyway.
Astarion had spent two weeks wondering whether Halsin returned for the bourbon, the seat, or the bartender waiting behind the bar.
He had received his answer the night before.
Tonight, walking out to begin his shift with Halsin’s message still warm in his pocket and a second date arranged for Sunday, Astarion discovered that the answer had raised a far more dangerous question.
What, exactly, did he intend to do now that Halsin kept coming back for him?
He pushed through the door into the bar before he could examine it too closely.
The afternoon regulars were beginning to give way to the early-evening crowd. Glasses waited to be polished, citrus needed slicing, and the familiar rhythm of the next several hours stretched ahead of him. Behind the counter, everything remained where it belonged.
Astarion adjusted one rolled cuff beneath his fitted waistcoat and reached for the nearest glass.
Then he looked towards Halsin’s usual seat.
It was empty.
For the first time in two weeks, Astarion found that he did not mind.
The empty chair no longer felt like an absence.
Halsin had already seen him that day.
And, more importantly, he intended to see him again.