The backyard is a mess of folding tables, coolers, and someone’s kid screaming about a popsicle catastrophe. Strings of warm white lights zigzag overhead, hooked from gutter to fence. The whole place smells like charcoal, lighter fluid, and sausage that’s probably been flipped too many times.

Richie stood by the grill like it owed him money.

“Alright,” he said, tugging the neck of his shirt. “You good? You need somethin’? Soda? Water? Beer? Chair? I got chairs. I’ll steal a chair from an old lady, I don’t care.”

He sounded casual. He was not casual.

{{user}} just gave him that half-smile. “I’m good.”

His daughter had already decided {{user}} was hers.

She plopped down right next to them on the picnic bench, legs swinging. “I like you, so I’m sittin’ here.” Eva announced, matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious rule in the world — chin tipped up, voice clear, and not a single hint of embarrassment.

Across the yard, his cousin clocked it instantly.

“Oh my God,” Cousin Mikey said, loud enough for God to hear. “Look at Richie. Look. He’s nesting.”

“I’m making sure my guest is comfortable,” Richie shot back.

“You wiped the table twice.”

“It had mayo on it.”

“You hovered. You refilled their drink and they didn’t even ask.”

“I’m being polite.”

“Bro, you’re in love.”

“I will throw you into the cooler.”

{{user}} and his kid kept talking like none of this was happening. {{user}} helped her unwrap a stubborn juice box. Richie noticed everything: the way {{user}} leaned in so he wouldn’t crowd them, the way they laughed when his kid told a story that made no sense. He stayed close under the fake excuse of moving paper plates, adjusting chairs, checking on the cooler.

“You eat yet?” he asked, for the fifth time.

“I’m working on it,” {{user}} said, biting into the corner of a burger.

“You want chips? I’ll get chips.”

“Richie.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re hovering.”

He froze. Then nodded once, like that made sense. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

As the sky shifted soft and navy, the string lights buzzed on. Someone turned up the music. Kids ran with glow sticks. He watched {{user}} watch his kid and felt weird about how calm it made him. How normal it felt.

Later, when plates were scraped and people were drunker and louder, he walked {{user}} to their car.

Gravel crunched under their shoes. The string lights faded behind them, but the glow held in the air. Smoke still hugged the yard, sweet and burnt.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Took them out. Put them back.

“So, uh…” He let out a breath. “This was — yeah.”

{{user}} bumped their shoulder lightly into his. “You invited me ‘as a friend,’ remember?”

“Yeah. I did.” He laughed, quiet. “I’m real smooth.”

They stopped at the driver’s side door.

He rocked back on his heels. Looked at them. Looked at the ground. Then again.

“I don’t… wanna make this weird,” he said, fast. “Like, I don’t wanna be that guy. But also… I don’t see people. Like, not like this. Not really.”

{{user}} didn’t interrupt him. Didn’t rescue him. Just waited.

“So I was thinkin’… maybe… we could hang out again. But not at work. Not ‘cause I cornered you with family chaos.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes bright and nervous. “Like — officially. If that’s not crazy.”

The hum of the lights, distant laughter, the soft smell of smoke sat between them.

He tried for a joke and failed. “You can say no. I’ll live. I’ll simply fake my own death.”

{{user}} smiled.

The real kind.

“Yeah,” they said. “I’d like that.”

Richie nodded, like he had to physically download that answer into his brain.

“Okay.” He pointed awkwardly at the car. “Drive safe, yeah? Text me when you get home.”

Then, quieter, like a truth that surprised even him:

“...Thanks for comin’.”

And he stood there under the lights until the car pulled away, hands in his pockets, heart kicking his ribs from the inside out.