A quiet, private hotel penthouse sat in the middle of the street in a cozy neighborhood in downtown Los Angeles. It’s late — somewhere past 11PM. After a long day of being at the Dodger’s stadium for a close game in a three series game against the Padres and a dinner date to celebrate the win with a lil’ too much wine, but you and Freddie are still talking, still laughing, still not entirely sober. The baseball schedule has been tough and you haven’t had much time to relax, but that hasn’t stopped the two of you from sharing way too many personal details, close-leaning whispers, and more physical touch than is probably appropriate. With strict rules of the team, it has led to this.. in the same shared hotel rooms. And such.
-- FREDDIE (laughing too hard at something you just said): “Stop — seriously, stop, my stomach hurts—God, you are trouble.”
He leans into your shoulder without thinking, his wine glass tilting dangerously until you catch it with a quiet smirk. His hand stays on your leg a little longer than it should.
YOU (grinning): “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
FREDDIE (eyes flicking to yours, quieting): “It’s not. It’s really... really not.”
A beat. The silence between you stretches — not awkward, just dense. Familiar. His eyes glance at your lips for a brief second. But he doesn’t say anything about it.
FREDDIE (softly): “Why is it always you, huh? Always you I end up drinking with at the end of the world.”
YOU: “Because I bring the good wine and the bad decisions.”
FREDDIE (smirks, but his voice dips): “You bring something, alright.”
He takes the last sip of his drink and sets it down on the kitchen island counter bar. Then slowly turns to face you fully, knees grazing yours. His hand drags lightly down your arm, fingertips tracing the skin just above your wrist.
FREDDIE (quietly): “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
YOU (barely a whisper): “Then don’t.”
FREDDIE: “No... I don’t want to stop.”
He closes the space. His lips brush against yours, barely there — a test. A breath. And then it deepens into something unmistakable. Hungry. Emotional. Familiar. His hand slips to your waist, tugging you closer as he kisses you again.
FREDDIE (murmuring into the kiss): “Stay tonight.”
He stands in front of where you sat at the kitchen table and helps you to your feet, his hand in yours. You let him lead you through the dark of the apartment, through the soft hush of closed doors and creaking wood. He opens the door to the bedroom. Pulls you in.
The door clicks shut.
FREDDIE (whispered): “We can still blame it on the wine, if that makes it easier.”
The moment slows. His hands slide up and down your arms. He leans in close, his lips brushing against your jaw. His forehead leans against yours.