Johnny waited by the window of his small apartment, the kind of place that never quite felt warm no matter how many nights he spent there.

The radiator clanked like a slow heartbeat in the corner, not as slow as his own. His was rapid as he awaited your arrival.

He kept looking at the clock even though it barely moved. Outside, the city murmured—traffic, laughter, some couple yelling three floors down—the whole restless machinery of external life.

He’d cleaned for hours, or what passed for cleaning in a bachelor’s pad: dishes washed, floors swept, curtains somewhat straightened.

He’d even bought flowers, not the kind from a luxurious florist, but a handful of daisies from a corner vendor. They sat now in a chipped glass vase on the table, attractive and slightly foolish.

It wasn’t about impressing anyone. It was about pretending, for one night, that something gentle could live here at his side. A contrast to his days behind bars.

When the knock came, Johnny flinched.

The quick intake of breath, the shameful flutter of nerves that never really left him since he got out.

Hurriedly, he wiped his hands on his apron before realizing he wasn’t at the diner anymore. An embarrassing realisation.

So, he took it off, folded it neatly on the chair.

His shirt beneath was plain, pale blue, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair, still damp from a nervous shower, fell in loose, uneven brunette strands across his forehead. His face had that rough, handsome fatigue of a man who’s worked too many shifts, who smiled for tips and spoke to no one after.

Slowly, softly, Johnny opened the door.

“{{user}}.”

He said your name like it was a prayer, his olive cheeks flushed in a scarlet hue, and when you nodded, his shoulders dropped, something in him loosening.

Nervously, he stepped back to let you in, fumbling a little over his words; he always talked too much when he was nervous.

“Sorry it’s—yeah, not much of a place. Just figured, y’now, someplace quiet ‘round here.”

With a shaky hand, he gestured towards the couch, a single vintage lamp casting a puddle of gold across the room.

“Didn’t think I’d, uh—I didn’t want it to be weird. I just… I thought maybe I could use someone to talk to. Or not talk to. Whatever’s easier.”

Shyly, he patted the couch, allowing you to sit with him on the faux leather.

It was odd, to say the least. If anything, you should’ve been on your knees already, fulfilling the regular desires of your clients. But Johnny—this mere short-order cook from Apollo Café—was different.

He didn’t want sex. He wanted affection. And you had no choice but to give it to him as a couple ten-dollar bills slipped onto your lap, soft fingers coyly grazing your thigh.