EPILOGUE
I wake up to the faint sound of the coffee machine grinding beans downstairs.
I turn my head and find Moon pressed against my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck.
For a second, I don’t move. Just watch him—serene, almost peaceful, one arm slung over my waist, his hair tickling my cheek.
“What are you staring at?” Moon mumbles, eyes still closed.
My face heats. “Uh…sorry. I thought you were asleep.”
He smirks and blinks at me, lashes heavy. His eyes meet mine—soft, half-lidded.
“Hi…” he whispers, voice rough with sleep.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
He gives me this small, sleepy smile that makes my heart skip. Then he shifts closer and tucks his face into the crook of my neck.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” He nods against my skin. “What time is it?”
I glance toward the window. Sun’s already pouring in.
“Probably after ten,” I say. “We slept in.”
Moon hums, thinking. “I’m starving,” he says. “Didn’t eat anything yesterday.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, smirking. “Let’s go get something.”
He sits up and goes still for a second, listening. There are faint sounds from downstairs—footsteps, a cabinet closing, someone talking.
“Your friends are still here?” he asks, looking over.
I nod. “Probably. I heard someone making coffee earlier.”
Moon stands, pulling the comforter with him—just to block my view, clearly—then reaches for his clothes on the floor.
“I’ll hop in the shower, if that’s okay,” he says, slipping on his briefs.
“I can grab you something clean to wear,” I offer.
He glances back at me with a crooked smile. “Gotta say, Woods—you’ve got some solid morning-after manners.”
***
We head downstairs about twenty minutes later, both of us showered and dressed in fresh clothes. Still, walking into the living room feels suspiciously like a walk of shame—because the only three people left in the house just happen to be the ones who knew exactly what we were up to last night.
Nick’s in the armchair with his coffee, one leg propped up, looking fresh and completely unbothered. Not even a hint of a hangover, though I know he drank a ton. As usual. And somehow, he’s always up early like nothing happened.
Samia, who never drinks much, looks way more wrecked than he does. She’s curled up on the couch under a blanket, watching the news on TV with the volume barely audible.
Eric looks hungover as hell. He’s sitting on the floor next to Nick, a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him, and a vaguely greenish tint to his face.
The living room looks like a battlefield—tables cluttered with half-finished drinks, empty plates, and abandoned snacks. Still, it’s clear someone already tidied up a bit. Probably Nick. He’s definitely the neatest of the three.
“Merry Christmas,” I say as we cross the room.
All three of them look up—each with a different level of enthusiasm.
“Merry Christmas!” Nick grins, way too cheerful. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, trying to ignore the eyebrow wiggle he throws in. “Everyone else gone?”
“Yeah, most left a couple hours ago,” Samia says, sitting up on the couch.
“You guys didn’t sleep at all?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her.
“I got a little sleep,” she says, mid-yawn.
“The guest room was occupied by Jo?o and Derek,” Nick adds.
I give him a look. “Wait, what?” Then glance at Eric. “Isn’t Derek straight?”
Eric just shrugs, voice hoarse. “I don’t think anything scandalous went down. Jo?o was passed out cold, and when I walked in, Derek looked like he was guarding his unconscious body so no one would ravage his flower.”
I snort, amused. Then glance back at Moon, who’s been standing quietly behind me.
“You want coffee?” I ask.
“I’d kill for it,” he says, mouth twitching into a quick smile.
“Come on,” I nod, and lead him into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, we come back carrying coffee, leftovers, and the aftermath of a very thorough kitchen makeout.
Samia scoots over to make space, and we settle onto the couch. As we eat and sip coffee, half-watching the TV, I catch Nick throwing me a series of very unsubtle looks.
He gestures toward his own neck and mouths something, trying not to draw attention—then adds a dramatic eyebrow wiggle for good measure.
That’s when it hits me. The hickey Moon left on my neck last night might actually be visible.
Well, shit. But it’s too late to care.
Moon catches the silent exchange and snorts. Then he turns to me.
“Wanna come meet my mom today?” he asks, cheeks instantly flushing.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, my face heating too. “Sure.”
“Meet your mom?!”
It’s Eric who blurts it out—loud enough to make everyone jump, nearly choking on his coffee. Samia and Nick both freeze, eyes wide.
Eric looks between us, frowning. “Wait, are you guys already at the meet-the-parents stage or something?”
I snort, ignoring Eric’s outburst—because really, what is there even to say—and Moon goes, “It’s not a big deal.”
I turn my attention back to the TV—then freeze.
“Where’s the remote?” I ask, louder than I mean to, scanning the room. Everyone stares like I’ve lost it, but I start digging between the couch cushions until I find it.
The footage on screen shifts to a sleek, high-end event space just as I crank the volume.
The voiceover says, “Richard Hawkins attended the opening of the Hawkins Youth Foundation today, joined by his son, Luke Hawkins—making his first public appearance in years.”
The anchor adds, “The two have reportedly had little contact in recent years due to a long-standing family rift.”
The footage cuts to video from the event—and I see him.
“That’s your Scooby-Doo bartender!” I shout at Eric, pointing at the screen.
Eric frowns, squinting at it—then his whole expression shifts.
“What?” Nick says, his mouth falling open, as all five of us stare at the screen.
The young guy standing next to Richard Hawkins is definitely the Scooby-Doo bartender Eric’s been hunting down for the past two months. He looks way more polished now—clean suit, slicked-back hair—but it’s the same face, no doubt about it.
“What’s going on?” Moon whispers in my ear.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whisper back.
“Welp,” Nick says loudly, clapping a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “At least now we know he’s real.”
Eric just keeps staring at the screen, stunned. Then slowly turns to me, looking completely thrown.
“How can he be Richard Hawkins’ son? He’s a bartender at a gay club.”
I shrug, grinning. Something tells me we haven’t seen the last of him.
THE END
If you’re curious about Eric and his mystery Scooby-Doo bartender, stay tuned for the next standalone in the OFF THE PITCH series.