14
Levi
Franny’s is alreadybuzzing when we walk in. Neon lights flirting drunkenly, music thumping like a relentless heartbeat that dares you to feel something. Dominic and Elijah waste no time claiming a booth near the stage, already waving down the bartender with the enthusiasm of men on a mission.
Hayden, however, hovers. He’s a picture of contrast. Pressed shirt, sleeves still rolled halfway up his forearms from our cooking escapades, and that perpetual furrow in his brow as if joy might be contagious and he’sveryconcerned about catching it.
I bump his shoulder. “Relax, Underworld. It’s just a bar. No one’s going to drop dead. At least, not before last call.”
He arches a brow. “Statistically speaking, last call’s risky.”
Before I can respond, Dominic plops four tequila shooters in front of us, grinning like the devil himself. “House rules: First round’s not optional.”
Hayden studies the shot glass, then downs the liquid with sinful ease. No flinch, no grimace.
I blink. Well, then.
Dominic whoops. “Oh, he’s dangerous. I love it.”
The next round comes faster, and then another. We’re pulled into some chaotic drinking game that involves slapping the table and shouting random words when someone messes up. Hayden’s the worst at it. Not because he’s bad at the game, but because he’s hardwired to overthink everything. Relatable. But by round four, he unravels. Shoulders loose, jaw slack with laughter. And his smile?Devastating.Not the tight-lipped smirk I’m used to, but something that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and the room quietly rearranges around him because he’s suddenly the center of it.
Elijah catches my gaze and wiggles his brows. Not just an “oh, you like him” wiggle. But the more dangerous “you like him in a way that matters” kind of wiggle. Like he’s watching puzzle pieces click into place.
I shrug. Casual. Chill. Not at all actively combusting from five feet away.
The lights dim abruptly, a spotlight snapping to the small stage near the bar. Penny Tration, Stonevale’s longest-running drag queen, unofficial town morale officer, and beloved mailman by day, takes the mic, sequins reflecting the light in rainbow bursts of sparkle.
“Alright, gays and theys,” she says, adjusting her glittering wig with a practiced flick. “For tonight’s performance, I need a backup dancer and I’m going to need some audience help.”
She scans the crowd…and her gaze lands on us.
On him.
“You,” she purrs, pointing a manicured claw directly at Hayden. “Buttoned up, suspiciously hot. Get up here, Tax Season Daddy.”
Hayden blinks like someone just summoned him in a séance. “Me?”
“Yes, you.Come on.”
Before he can protest, Dominic and Elijah have formed a two-man hype squad, chanting, “Hay-den! Hay-den! Hay-den!”
I lean in. “Youabsolutelydon’t have to do this.”
His eyes narrow, equal parts betrayal and resignation, before he downs the rest of his drink, stands, and makes his way to the stage like he’s attending a compliance seminar.
Penny drags him center stage and fans herself so hard her wig flutters. “Name, sexy?”
He clears his throat. “Hayden.”
The queen fans herself dramatically again. “And what do you do, Hayden?”
“I’m a funeral director.”
The crowd loses it.
Penny winks. “Dead inside and hot outside.Justmy type. Well, let’s see those moves!”
Hayden’s mouth quirks.
