We walk through the streets toward the city center, past narrow alleys and old buildings with shutters painted bright colors. The restaurants and bars are full, people spilling out onto patios, laughter and conversation floating through the air. It’slively without being overwhelming, charming in the way small European cities always are.
Gabriel leads me to a family restaurant tucked into a side street, the kind of place that doesn’t have a sign out front because it doesn’t need one, because the locals know about it. We sit outside at a small table, and a woman who looks like she could be someone’s grandmother brings us menus and water without asking.
The food comes fast. Gnocchi with brown butter and sage, pillowy and perfectly salted. Bread that’s still warm from the oven. A carafe of house wine that’s better than it has any right to be.
Gabriel eats like he’s been starving, and I realize he probably hasn’t eaten much today besides the soup and the salad I made him. I watch him scoop gnocchi onto his fork and the way his throat works when he swallows. He makes a small, satisfied noise after the first bite.
“Good?” I ask.
“Really good.” He glances up at me. “Thanks for dragging me out.”
“You’re welcome.”
He smiles, and I feel the knot in my chest loosen a little.
When we finish, Gabriel pays the bill before I can argue and stands. “Ready for the bar?”
“Lead the way.”
The gay bar is a ten-minute walk from the restaurant, tucked into a street that’s quieter than the main drag. The entrance is understated, just a door with a small rainbow flag sticker in the corner. Gabriel pushes it open and we step inside.
The bar is darker than the street outside, lit only by strings of warm lights and the amber glow of the liquor bottles. It’s not packed but it’s busy. Groups clustered at tables and along the bar, bodies moving on a small dance floor in the back. The music has a low, steady pulse, the kind that fills the room without swallowing it.
We make our way to the bar and find two empty stools. Gabriel catches the bartender’s attention and orders two Aperol Spritzes. The bartender nods and gets to work, pulling bottles and slicing oranges with quick, efficient movements.
I look around while we wait. The crowd skews younger, mostly guys in their twenties and thirties, though there are a few older men scattered throughout. Everyone’s dressed well, put-together in that European way that makes my casual look sloppy by comparison.
And they’re looking at us. Or more specifically, they’re looking at Gabriel.
I notice the way eyes track him when he moves, the way conversations pause when he laughs. A guy at a table near the dance floor is outright staring, his drink forgotten in his hand. Another guy at the end of the bar is watching him with the kind of focus that makes me want to put myself between them.
Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s just used to it.
The bartender sets our drinks in front of us, bright orange and garnished with a slice of orange. I take a sip. It’s sweet and bitter at the same time, easier to drink than I expected.
Gabriel sips his and glances at me. “What do you think?”
“It’s good. I can see why people like these.”
We sit in silence for a bit, nursing our drinks, watching the bar fill up around us. The bartender comes back and sets another Aperol Spritz in front of Gabriel.
Gabriel frowns. “I didn’t order this.”
The bartender smiles and gestures toward the end of the bar. “It’s from the gentleman down there.”
We both look. There’s an older man sitting three stools down, silver hair styled perfectly, wearing a suit that fits him the way only bespoke tailoring does. He’s got the kind of confidence that comes with money and age, and when he sees us looking, he lifts his glass in a subtle nod.
Something unpleasant coils in my chest. I don’t like this guy. I don’t like the way he’s looking at Gabriel, like he’s already won something. I don’t like that he’s older, that he’s clearly wealthy, that he reminds me too much of Blaine Ashford.
I reach over and take the drink from in front of Gabriel.
“I’ll have it,” I say.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow, his mouth quirking into a smirk. “Didn’t know you liked cocktails so much.”
“I prefer wine.” I take a sip, the sweetness hitting my tongue. “But hey, when in Rome.”
“We’re not in Rome.”
