Chapter 18 Reservations and Reboots
Leo spent the rest of Monday in a state of suspended animation.
He moved through his tasks, attended meetings, and contributed to brainstorming sessions, but it all felt like it was happening to someone else, a highly functional avatar being piloted from a great distance.
His own consciousness was still back at the wall of windows, trapped in the echo of Julian’s words: I have no intention of forgetting it.
The words were a terrifying, beautiful promise. They were a declaration that the kiss wasn't a mistake to be swept under the rug, but a data point to be investigated. It meant Julian felt something. It meant this impossible, ridiculous, heart-stopping thing between them might actually be real.
The hope was a dizzying, effervescent thing, bubbling up in his chest and making it hard to breathe.
And right behind it was the guilt, a cold, heavy anchor.
Because the one thing Julian was investigating, the man he was starting to see, was a fiction.
A carefully constructed character named Leo Hayes, Creative Concept Lead.
Not Leo Hayes, broke artist and professional imposter.
He was so lost in his internal hurricane of hope and dread that he didn't notice Julian approaching his desk at the end of the day until he was already standing there. Leo looked up, his heart executing a perfect triple axel in his chest.
"Hayes," Julian said, his voice low and formal, though his eyes held a different, softer light. "My office, please."
Oh god, this is it, Leo thought, his blood turning to ice. He's found out. The Scrimshaw Institute sent him an email. They don't exist. It's over.
He followed Julian into the glass-walled office, his legs feeling like they were made of jelly.
He sat in the chair opposite the imposing desk, bracing himself for the inevitable.
Julian sat down, folded his hands neatly on the desk, and looked at him.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension.
"I find myself in an unprecedented situation," Julian began, his voice a calm, even timber. "One for which my usual protocols are inadequate."
"Join the club," Leo muttered under his breath.
Julian's lips twitched. "My professional judgment dictates that I should apologize for my behavior on Friday and ensure it does not happen again. My personal… data, however, suggests a different course of action."
"Data?" Leo squeaked.
"The evidence suggests that the event was not an anomaly but the logical result of a developing interpersonal dynamic," Julian continued, as if discussing a market trend. "Therefore, to ignore it would be an inefficient use of emotional resources."
Leo stared at him, completely bewildered. "Are you… are you analyzing our kiss like a spreadsheet?"
"I am attempting to apply a logical framework to an illogical event," Julian corrected, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "The conclusion I have reached is this: I would like to continue the experiment. Outside of the office."
It took Leo's brain a solid ten seconds to parse that. "The experiment?"
Julian let out a small, frustrated sigh, the first crack in his composed facade. "I am asking you on a date, Leo."
The world tilted. Julian Thorne was asking him out. Not as a boss, but as a man. The hope that had been bubbling in Leo’s chest exploded, a supernova of pure, unadulterated joy. He couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face.
"Oh," he said, the single word filled with a universe of relief and exhilaration. "Yeah. Yes. Definitely. I would love to continue the experiment."
"Good," Julian said, a look of profound relief washing over his own features. "I've made a reservation. Friday night. Eight o'clock. At Cordelette."
And just like that, the supernova of joy collapsed into a tiny, dense black hole of dread.
Cordelette. Leo knew of Cordelette. It was the kind of restaurant that had its own font.
It was a place where the waiters spoke in hushed whispers and the food was arranged with tweezers.
It was a place where a single entrée cost more than his weekly grocery budget.
It was, in short, the most Julian Thorne place on the planet, and the absolute last place Leo Hayes would ever feel comfortable.
"Great," Leo said, his smile feeling brittle. "Can't wait."
On Friday night, Leo stood in front of his closet, experiencing a level of wardrobe-related panic usually reserved for spies on undercover missions.
What did one wear to Cordelette? His usual uniform of band t-shirts and worn jeans felt like a declaration of war against fine dining.
After an agonizing twenty minutes, he settled on a pair of black jeans—his least faded pair—and a dark blue button-down shirt that he'd ironed twice.
He still felt like a child playing dress-up.
When he arrived at the restaurant, his fears were immediately confirmed. The interior was a study in hushed, expensive minimalism. The lighting was so dim he was worried he might trip over a piece of avant-garde furniture. The air was thick with the scent of money and intimidatingly subtle perfume.
Julian was already there, sitting at a secluded table in the corner. He stood as Leo approached, and Leo's breath caught in his throat. In a crisp, dark suit with a simple white shirt, no tie, Julian looked less like a boss and more like a movie star. He was devastating.
"Leo," Julian said, a genuine, small smile on his face. "You look nice."
"You look like you own the place," Leo replied, the words tumbling out. "Or at least, like you could afford to buy it and shut it down out of sheer boredom."
Julian's smile widened. "Let's eat first. Then I'll consider it."
The date, however, went downhill from there.
The waiter spoke exclusively in French. The menu was a single, cryptic page with no prices and descriptions like "A Deconstruction of the Forest Floor.
" Leo, trying to appear sophisticated, ordered something that turned out to be a single, lonely scallop sitting in a puddle of foam.
Julian, in his natural habitat, navigated the experience with effortless grace.
The conversation was stilted, formal. The easy banter they had discovered in the car felt a million miles away.
Here, under the weight of the restaurant's oppressive silence, they reverted to their roles: the polished, successful boss and the out-of-his-depth, fraudulent employee.
Every time Julian asked him a question about his past work, Leo felt a jolt of panic, forcing him to weave another thread into the tapestry of his lies.
The final straw came when Julian, in a genuine attempt at connection, said, "I value honesty above all else. In work, in life. It's the most efficient foundation for any relationship. It's why I appreciate your directness, even when it's… chaotic."
The words landed like a physical blow. Leo felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at Julian, at this brilliant, honest, ridiculously handsome man who was trying to build a foundation with him, and the weight of his deception was a crushing, suffocating thing.
He had to get out.
"You know what?" Leo said, putting his napkin on the table with a sense of finality. "I hate this."
Julian blinked, taken aback. "The scallop? I can send it back."
"No, not the scallop," Leo said, a wave of reckless honesty washing over him. "Well, yes, the scallop is a tragedy, but that's not the point. I mean this. This place. It's not me. And I don't think it's you, either. Not the you I saw when you talked about the cello, anyway."
He stood up. "I'm sorry, this was a terrible idea. I should go."
He turned to leave, but Julian's hand shot out, his fingers closing gently around Leo's wrist. The touch was warm, firm, and it stopped Leo in his tracks.
"Wait," Julian said, his voice quiet but firm. "You're right."
Leo turned back, confused.
"This was a mistake," Julian continued, standing up as well.
He looked around the hushed, elegant room with a look of distaste.
"I was trying to execute a 'perfect date' based on external data.
It was… an error in judgment." He dropped a few bills on the table, more than enough to cover their tragic entrees. "Let's reboot."
"Reboot?"
"You choose," Julian said, his eyes searching Leo's. "Take me somewhere you would actually want to be."
A slow smile spread across Leo's face. "Okay," he said. "But you're not allowed to complain."
Fifteen minutes later, they were standing under the buzzing neon sign of "Galaxy Arcade," the air thick with the cacophony of 8-bit music, air hockey pucks, and teenage laughter.
Julian was looking around the chaotic, dimly lit space with the expression of an anthropologist discovering a lost tribe.
"This is… loud," Julian observed.
"This is the sound of joy," Leo corrected, grabbing his hand. The simple, impulsive act of lacing their fingers together felt both shockingly bold and completely natural. Julian's hand was warm and strong in his. He didn't pull away.
Leo led him through the maze of games, finally stopping at a vintage two-player "Street Fighter II" machine. "Prepare to be destroyed, Thorne."
"I find your confidence in your button-mashing abilities to be unfounded," Julian retorted, but he was smiling, a real, unguarded smile that lit up his whole face.
What followed was a masterclass in joyous, ridiculous competition.
They were terrible. Julian, with his analytical brain, tried to learn the complex combos, his movements precise but slow.
Leo, relying on pure instinct, just mashed the buttons in a flurry of chaotic energy.
They yelled at the screen. They laughed until their sides hurt.
Julian, at one point, let out a whoop of triumph so loud and uncharacteristic that it turned the heads of a group of nearby teenagers.
They moved on to air hockey, a frantic, breathless battle that ended in a disputed tie.
Then came Skee-Ball, where Leo's artistic aim proved surprisingly effective, earning him enough tickets for a plastic spider ring, which he ceremoniously presented to Julian.
Julian, to Leo's utter delight, actually put it on.
In the noisy, vibrant chaos of the arcade, surrounded by flashing lights and the smell of popcorn, they were no longer a boss and an employee. They were just Leo and Julian. The stilted formality of the restaurant was a distant memory. Here, they were easy, playful, real.
They ended the night walking through the quiet streets of Starling Grove, sharing a bag of greasy, perfect French fries from a food truck.
"For the record," Leo said, popping a fry into his mouth, "I totally won at air hockey."
"The data is inconclusive," Julian said, stealing a fry from the bag. Their fingers brushed, a casual, comfortable touch that sent a shiver down Leo's spine. "We'll require a rematch."
They stopped in front of Leo's building, the same spot where everything had almost happened a week ago. But this time, the tension wasn't fraught with uncertainty. It was a comfortable, humming energy, the warm glow of a perfect night.
"I had fun tonight, Julian," Leo said, his voice soft and sincere.
"As did I," Julian replied, his eyes warm in the soft glow of the streetlamp. "Your methodology is… surprisingly effective."
He stepped closer, and Leo's heart began to beat a little faster. This time, there was no hesitation. Julian gently cupped his face, his thumb stroking his cheek.
"Thank you," Julian murmured, "for rebooting the system."
And then he kissed him again. It was different from the first time. It wasn't a spark of pent-up tension, but a slow, deep, deliberate burn. It was a kiss full of the shared laughter from the arcade, of the easy conversation, of the quiet understanding. It was a kiss that felt real.
When they broke apart, Leo was breathless. The joy was so pure, so overwhelming, it eclipsed everything else. For a single, perfect moment, the lie didn't matter.
He knew it would come back. The guilt, the fear, it was all waiting for him on the other side of that door. But right now, standing here with Julian's hand on his face and the taste of his kiss on his lips, he allowed himself to believe in this.
He was falling, hard and fast. And for the first time, he didn't care about the landing.