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That got the smallest shift in Antonio’s expression, enough to keep Hakeem going.

“Then one guy kept insisting his cocktail ‘didn’t taste haunted enough,’ which is not a critique a real person should be allowed to give another adult. One of Layla’s tables tried to move a candle centerpiece and nearly set a menu on fire. I also had to remake the same woman’s drink twice because apparently what she wanted was ‘less sweet, but not more bitter, and more sex.’”

Antonio nodded once, inviting more.

Without quite meaning to, Hakeem gave it to him.

“Later, Tabbi pulled me aside to say my face was reading too annoyed for the floor, which I’m still choosing to receive as feedback and not a threat.”

Antonio listened with his whole face.

He wasn’t offering big reactions. But he was listening attentively enough that Hakeem could tell when a joke landed by the slight shift of Antonio’s mouth, when he disapproved by the flattening of his expression, and when he was waiting for Hakeem to keep going by the stillness of him. It was disarming. Hakeem had known and been with plenty of attractive men. Fewer who listened like this. Fewer still who made being listened to feel faintly erotic against your will.

“What about you?” Hakeem asked before he could lose nerve. “What did you do today?”

Antonio tore off another piece of tortilla. “Ran errands.”

“That is not a full day.”

“It was today.”

“Anything interesting?”

Antonio thought for a second. “A cashier told me I looked reliable.”

Hakeem snorted. “That’s because you wear glasses like you grade people for fun.”

Antonio took a sip of water like he had not just heard him say something that bold.

Hakeem didn’t want to linger on the fact that he basically just told Antonio he’s noticed him in ways that imply intimacy. He continued.

“So what did you say to the cashier?”

“I thanked her,” Antonio said. “It seemed rude not to.”

Hakeem let out a real, surprised, and slightly-too-loud laugh.

Antonio looked at him as if Hakeem's laughing mattered enough to register.

The sensation of being seen returned so sharply that Hakeem wished Antonio would go back to unsettling him in simpler ways.

“Do I look reliable to you?” Antonio asked.

Hakeem made the mistake of looking directly at him while considering it.

Bad choice.

Antonio’s face, when Hakeem let himself really look, was built out of details that felt questionable to linger over: the dark, unruly waves of his hair; the five o’clock shadow softening the line of his full mouth and sharp jaw; the vintage-looking square glasses that somehow made him seem both more accessible and more capable of ruining Hakeem’s life; the little tiredness still living at the corners of his eyes; the quiet patience of his expression while he waited.

“I think,” Hakeem said carefully, “you could convince somebody to wire you money.”

Antonio smiled widely, and Hakeem felt the impact of it immediately, as if he had been waiting for exactly that.

Antonio looked down at his plate again, maybe to spare him, maybe because he had no idea what that smile had just done. Hakeem couldn’t tell which possibility was worse.

Hakeem set his fork down. “Can I ask you something?”

“About what?”