Archie strutted up next, hips swaying dramatically. “Watch and learn, boys.”
He bowled a strike. Of course, he did.
“Okay, that was luck,” Brogan muttered, sipping his beer.
“Skill,” Archie corrected, blowing on his fingers like they were smoking. “Pure, uncut talent.”
By the third frame, Rafael was dancing every time he knocked down more than five pins, and Andrew had developed a very serious pre-bowl ritual involving three deep breaths and a dramatic squat.
“You look like you’re trying to summon a spirit,” Brogan teased.
“I’m summoning my inner champion,” Andrew replied, deadpan.
By the end of the night, Archie had smoked them all, crowing with delight as he threw his arms up in victory.
“I demand a rematch,” Brogan said, pointing his beer bottle at him.
Archie leaned in, smug. “You can have a rematch. But you’ll still lose.”
Brogan grinned, tugging him close. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Damn right I am.”
They all laughed, the kind of laughter that came easy and full, echoing off the alley walls. It wasn’t just a night out. It was a memory in the making—one Brogan knew he’d hold on to for a long, long time. He took several photos of them.
Brogan and Archie left the bowling lanes with the easy laughter that came from a night well spent. Archie had somehow beaten him by a single pin, and Brogan was still pretending to be bitter about it. The air outside was sharp with cold, but their hands found each other’s as they walked to the car, warm and familiar.
Back home, they kicked off their shoes and collapsed onto the couch, the glow of the Christmas tree casting soft light across the living room. The ornaments shimmered, and the scent of pine mixed with the faint trace of Brogan’s cologne and the lingering smell of hot chocolate from the night before.
Brogan leaned back, arm draped across the back of the couch behind Archie. He glanced at him, heart thudding a little faster than usual. “Hey,” he said, voice casual but a little nervous, “would you ever want to visit the UK with me? Meet my parents?”
Archie blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Wait—seriously?”
Brogan nodded, trying to play it cool but feeling the flutter of nerves in his chest. “Yeah. I was thinking maybe over spring break? We could go for a week. Do the whole tourist thing—London, the countryside, and of course, Ireland where I was born and raised. And if we’re feeling ambitious, Scotland and Wales.”
Archie turned toward him, eyes wide and soft. “You want me to meet your family?”
“I do,” Brogan said, brushing a thumb along Archie’s knee. “I want them to know you. And I want you to see where I’m from.”
Archie smiled, slow and a little shy. “I like the idea. I really do. That sounds amazing.”
Brogan felt something settle in his chest—relief, maybe, or just that quiet kind of joy that came from knowing they were on the same page. He stood up and grabbed his camera from the shelf. “Alright then,” he said, grinning. “Let’s commemorate the moment.”
He set the camera on the coffee table, adjusted the angle, and hit the timer. Then he slid back onto the couch, pulling Archie close. “Okay, smile. Or don’t. You always look good.”
Archie rolled his eyes but leaned in, resting his head on Brogan’s shoulder. The camera clicked.
They took a few more—one with Archie kissing Brogan’s cheek, one where they were both laughing too hard to look at the lens, one where Brogan wrapped his arms around Archie’s waist and whispered something dumb just to make him snort.
Then they called over Molly and Pasha, who came trotting in like they knew they were about to be stars. Brogan scooped up Molly while Archie wrangled Pasha, and they got a few shots with the pets nestled between them, tails wagging and ears perked.
After the last photo, Brogan didn’t bother checking the screen. He just looked at Archie, cheeks flushed from laughter, eyes glowing in the tree light.
“You know,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from Archie’s forehead, “I think this is my favorite Christmas already.”
Archie leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Mine too.”
Chapter Eight
