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Damien teases his lover all day while they work...
"Hey, you actually brought people this time," he said, chuckling, and I buried my face in my hands.
"Oh, God, Matty, you really do come here a lot," Phoebe said, her tone half-worried, half-amused.
"You know, babe, I think our resident Brit was asking about you." I looked up with an expression that made the bartender burst out laughing. "Lemme send him over," he said with a wink and twirled away before I could protest. Or think about protesting. Would I have protested? He was asking about me. I turned to Phoebe and Tali with a look of excitement and terror that they returned twofold. Then a more smug excitement overtook their faces as their gaze landed over my shoulder and I froze.
That fucking voice. I turned around to face a whiff of his silky, soapy scent and wanted to jump over the bar right then. I forced myself to think of my previous humiliations in order to ground myself in the gravity of this interaction.
"Petruchio. I heard you were asking about me," I replied smoothly, grappling to regain some semblance of power in this dynamic. It was power easily won, evidently, as he turned a shade of pink different from the sweaty flush he'd been wearing before. He went to tuck his hair behind his ear, forgetting that it was tied up.
"Well, you could barely walk when I dropped you off. I was hoping someone had seen you alive."
There went my upper hand. Phoebe snickered behind me, and I shot her a glare that only worsened her laughing. I sighed and faced my mystery Brit.
"These are my friends Phoebe and Tali. They are the reason that I'm here."
He gave them a wave accompanied with a cute little smile that made all three of us melt. He turned back to me and I tried to refreeze.
"You didn't want to come back and face me?" he asked sweetly. I opened my mouth to answer when he turned away, over his shoulder, apparently being called back by a coworker. He grabbed a napkin, fished a pen from his back pocket, and scribbled down his number.
"I'm off at one tonight," he said with a smirk. "If you're in the neighborhood."
And then he was gone, dancing away, moving like water, or syrup, or something fluid but entirely its own.
"Wow, he is way out of your league," Phoebe said flatly, and, for the life of me, I just wanted to tackle her to the goddamn floor.
"Well, you won't be getting a ride with us!"
That was the response Tali and Phoebe had given me that night when I told them I might just head home. They were right to push me, and I knew it, but in the moment I was so pissed. All I needed was for someone (Phoebe) to look me in the eyes and tell me that it was okay to be scared and nervous and that it was going to turn out fine and that even if it didn't turn out fine that would be fine becauses who was he to me anyway? But Phoebe was drunk, and Tali was doting on her, and I was standing outside that damn bar, too nervous to go in, too nervous to leave, refreshing my texts and emails repeatedly in hopes of finding some sort of distraction.
"Christopher," said an almost-surprised, ever-coy British voice behind me. "Wasn't sure you'd come."
I turned and faced him. I'd had time to prepare, trying to wear down the aggressively sexual image of him in my mind, but seeing him in person slapped the preparation out of me, as if to say Nice try!
"Oh, you're not all that scary," I said, trying to sound casual, or flirty, or friendly, or anything other than anxious and turned on. "And could you call me Matty?"
His eyes lit up for a moment. "I'm not sure I recall that character," he replied, tightening his scarf around his neck before gesturing in front of him. My eyes followed his gesture to an empty sidewalk and then returned to stare at him blankly.
"Oh," he started, his face flushing slightly. "My apartment. It's that way. I mean, not that we-- I-- just, to talk and, you know, hang out. Because it's late, and places aren't open. That sounds fake. I'm being sincere."
I grinned at this blathering, bashful man before me and waited for him to ti