Finn nodded, smiling in that soft way that always hit Maurice harder than it should.
There was a line at Mr. Santos’s table. Maurice stood behind Finn, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to smell the faint citrus of his cologne. He tried not to stare at the curve of Finn’s neck, but he failed. Repeatedly.
When they finally reached the front, Mr. Santos grinned as if he knew exactly what they were up to.
He handed each of them each a token. “Don’t be late. If you miss the train, you can get picked up at Des Moines. Have fun.”
Maurice didn’t miss the knowing tone and Finn blushed. Maurice pretended not to notice, even though he absolutely did.
As soon as they had their tokens, they left the station and stepped onto the busy Chicago street. The city air was warm, buzzing with traffic and voices and the smell of food from somewhere nearby. Maurice lifted his hand, hailed a cab, and Finn slid in beside him.
Maurice’s heart thumped once—hard—when their thighs brushed.
He told the driver the name of the restaurant, a place he’d loved for years. Fancy. Romantic. The kind of place you didn’t take someone unless you cared.
They got out in front of the steakhouse, light spilling through the windows. Finn looked up at the building with wide eyes.
“This place looks… wow.”
Maurice’s chest lifted with a quiet satisfaction. “Only the best for you.”
Finn’s cheeks pinked again, and something in Maurice’s chest tightened in a familiar, hopeful way.
Inside, the restaurant looked exactly the way Maurice remembered it—dramatic, almost theatrical in its elegance. The ceiling arched high above them, painted a deep midnight blue with tiny pinpricks of warm light that mimicked stars. Heavy velvet curtains framed the windows, and the dark wood walls were lined with framed black-and-white photos of old Chicago lawyers, judges, and musicians.
This was the place he and David had celebrated passing the bar exam years ago—two broke twenty-somethings pretending they belonged in a restaurant where the cheapest steak cost more than their monthly grocery budget. They’d spent a long weekend in Chicago back then, drunk on relief and ambition. Maurice hadn’t been back since.
Walking in now with Finn hit him in a way he hadn’t expected. Like the past and present were folding together.
A server led them to a small table near the window. The city lights glittered outside, and Finn looked beautiful in the glow.
They ordered wine as Finn’s fingers brush the stem of his glass, delicate and a little nervous. Finn leaned in when he talked, chin propped on his hand, eyes bright in the low restaurant lighting. Every time he laughed, he nudged Maurice’s knee under the table as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Maurice teased him about the menu; Finn teased him right back. Finn made a joke about Maurice being “a steakhousesnob,” and Maurice pretended to be offended, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. Finn giggled—actually giggled—and something reckless unfurled in his chest.
They flirted without even trying. Finn’s foot brushed his ankle. Maurice’s hand lingered a second too long when he passed the breadbasket. Finn’s smile kept drifting toward something softer, something that made Maurice’s pulse pick up.
Everything between them moved with an ease—dangerously easy. Like they’d done this a hundred times. Like they could do it a hundred more.
At one point, Finn leaned in, smiling shyly. “I’m really glad we did this.”
Maurice’s heart did something ridiculous. “Me too.”
He let his eyes drift down Finn’s chest, remembering something he’d been curious about earlier. “So… when did you get those gold nipple rings?”
Finn nearly choked on his wine. His face turned bright red. “Maurice!”
“What?” Maurice grinned. “They’re nice.”
Finn covered his face with his hands for a second, laughing. “I got them when I turned eighteen. My parents made me wait.”
Maurice laughed. “Of course they did.”
“They thought I’d change my mind.”
“And did you?”
Finn shook his head, smiling. “Not even a little.”
