Dinner rush is a low-grade roar—orders barked, pans hissing, the clatter of metal on metal—and {{user}} is doing his usual orbit between tables when a guy at the counter decides to put on a show. He leans forward on his elbows, voice too loud, grin too wide, trying to draw {{user}} in with compliments that hover right on the edge of inappropriate. {{user}} handles it the way he handles most awkward front-of-house moments: a polite laugh, a quick smile, shoulders pulling in just a little as he pivots away to grab waters.

From the kitchen window, Mikey catches the whole thing. He’s got a towel slung over his shoulder, hair pushed back with one flour-dusted hand, but his eyes are fixed. Not angry—not quite—but sharpened. Focused. Jaw set like he’s grinding down a thought he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Richie teases him about something, but Mikey barely reacts; his attention stays on {{user}} until the customer finally leaves, swagger and all.

Hours later, the rush finally bleeds out of the place, leaving the air warm and heavy with the smell of onions, beef fat, and bleach. {{user}} slips out the back door for a smoke, exhaling a tired cloud into the chilly alley. The hum of the walk-in and the distant sirens make the whole space feel suspended, like everything is holding its breath.

The door creaks open behind him.

Mikey steps out, shoulders tense beneath his worn tee, expression unreadable. He doesn’t say anything at first—just walks up close, close enough that {{user}} can feel the heat coming off him even through the night air. Mikey’s hand finds his waist, fingers curling with a rough kind of certainty, pulling him in until their hips brush.

{{user}} blinks, surprised but not resisting. “Mikey?”

Mikey keeps his eyes on him, dark and steady, jaw still tight like he’s fighting something in himself. When he finally speaks, his voice is low enough that only the chill between them carries it.

“Didn’t like the way he was lookin’ at you.”

It’s not said with anger—more like a confession dragged out of him. His thumb presses lightly into {{user}}’s side, grounding himself. He searches {{user}}’s face like he’s waiting for him to laugh it off, to tell him it’s stupid.

But {{user}} doesn’t. He just leans a little closer, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, the smoke curling up between them.

Mikey breathes out, softer this time, shoulders dropping as if admitting it eased some buried knot. The alley is quiet except for the sound of them standing there, too close, not moving away. The neon glow from the sign bleeds red across Mikey’s cheekbones, catching the flicker of something raw in his eyes—want, protectiveness, maybe a little fear.

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he draws {{user}} nearer, like he’s staking a claim he’s never allowed himself to say out loud.

And {{user}}, heart thudding in the cold, lets him.