Frankie hadn’t planned on being here. These things—these gilded cages full of too much cologne and not enough soul—weren’t his scene. But here he was, collar open, tie loose in his jacket pocket, hands stuffed deep in slacks as his father held court somewhere upstairs.

And that’s when he saw {{user}}.

They weren’t glowing. Nothing poetic like that. But something about the way they tilted their head as they listened—really listened—made his ribs feel too tight. He knew who they were. Knew the name like he knew the weight of a pistol or the burn of a good scotch. Knew who their father was, what it meant.

Didn’t matter.

He drifted toward them like it wasn’t his choice. Maybe it wasn’t.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," he said, and watched their gaze flick toward him. Sharp. Measured. “Guess that makes two of us.”

It was all easy after that. Easier than it should’ve been. There were jokes. Half-truths. Stories that skimmed the surface like stones over still water. They sat side by side on the velvet couch no one else had claimed, knees brushing. Once. Twice. Didn’t move away.

He laughed too much. Smiled too hard. His father would’ve called it weak. Frankie called it alive.

“What d’you think—wanna give the other heirs something to talk about?” He was teasing, mostly. But when their lips twitched like they were fighting a smile, he felt it in his throat.

They talked past midnight. Past tipsy. Past the awkward stage where everyone else started leaving. Their phones buzzed. Neither checked. Frankie leaned closer, voice softer now. “You ever get tired of being a last name before you’re a person?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. They didn’t need to.

Somewhere around 3 a.m., they moved out to the curb. Chilly air, city humming low. Their ride was already waiting. The driver tapped the horn once, then again. Frankie watched the screen on their phone light up. Uber. Impatient.

"You don’t have to go just yet," he said, voice quieter now. Almost like a secret. “He can wait. Right?”

{{user}} stayed. They leaned against the brick wall beside him, both of them staring at the night like it might crack open and swallow the tension between them. Frankie glanced sideways. Close enough now to smell whatever they wore—something clean, and soft, and nothing like danger.

But it was dangerous, wasn’t it?

He cleared his throat. “My old man’d have a stroke if he knew I was talkin’ to you. Probably throw a cigar at the wall, call it treason.”

He laughed under his breath. “And yet. Here I am.”

Their shoulder brushed his again, this time deliberate. Intentional. Frankie sucked in a breath that felt more like a risk than a reflex.

“I don’t know why it’s you,” he murmured. “But I ain’t felt like this in—hell, maybe ever.”

There was no kiss. Not yet. But the moment hung there, like a thread stretched taut.

“I’m not sayin’ I’m Romeo. I’m not stupid. But if you tell me this means nothin’, I’ll know you’re lying.”

The driver honked again. Frankie looked down at their phone, then back up. “I’ll walk you to the car. Least I can do.”

They didn’t say no. That was something.

When they reached the curb, {{user}} opened the car door but didn’t get in right away. Frankie shifted his weight, hands in his coat again, heart banging in a rhythm he didn’t recognize.

“I know this was supposed to be nothin’. Just a night. Just a maybe.” His voice cracked on the edge of it. “But I’m gonna be grinnin’ like an idiot all the way back home.”

They still didn’t speak, but something in the way they lingered there—something in the way their fingers brushed his sleeve before they finally stepped inside—told him enough.

He stayed there after the car pulled away. Stared at the dark, empty street with that same stupid smile on his face.

Frank Accardi, son of a devil, smiling like a fool.

And damn it all—he didn’t regret a thing.