Chase’s eyes snapped up. His jaw went slack.  

“Uh—uh, I… I’m… uh.”

“I’d really love some company,” the man continued, earnest and a little too eager. “I’m alone tonight, and I can’t stomach another dinner by myself. I would absolutely love it if you’d join me.”

Chase straightened, clearing his throat as if he could clear his panic with it. He tried to gather what remained of his composure.  

“Uh… I really am pressed for time. I’m…” He gestured vaguely, searching for an escape.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” the man said softly, almost pleading. “I’d hate to dine alone. I’d love the company. And I’m willing to bet you would too.”

Chase hesitated. A long, tight beat. His mind raced—not about the invitation, but about everything that could go wrong if this man said the wrong thing, or took offense, or misunderstood even a single word. He felt the familiar prickle of dread at the base of his spine.

“Sure,” Chase finally managed. “I’d… I’d love to.”

He stood, smoothing his damp pant legs with his napkin before tossing it onto the table. This is a mistake. I should leave. I should leave before anything has the chance to go sideways.

“Excellent,” the man said, relieved, gesturing toward his table.

Chase followed, each step feeling like he was walking into a room where a serial killer awaits.

A waiter approached with a curious tilt of his head.

“Mr. Whitmore, you have company tonight?” he asked with a polite bow and a smile.

“Yes. This is…” The man nodded toward Chase, waiting.

Chase didn’t catch the cue at first. His eyes were locked on the man’s deep brown gaze, his thoughts drifting somewhere warm and unsteady. Then he noticed both the man and the waiter watching him expectantly.

“Chase,” he blurted. “I’m Chase. My name’s Chase.” He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat again and suddenly wanted to bury his face.

“This is Chase,” the man repeated with a nod. “He’ll be dining with me this evening.”

“Very good… sir.” The waiter hesitated and gave a wary glance at Chase but nodded and poured water for Mr. Whitmore before stepping away.

Miles took a slow sip of his water before setting the glass back down. The quiet between them stretched just long enough to make Chase’s nerves prickle. His gaze dropped to the table.

“Miles,” the man said with a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Chase.”

Chase’s head snapped up. “Miles Whitmore?”

“Yes.” Miles nodded, a soft chuckle escaping him.

Wait. Chase blinked. “The Miles Whitmore?”

“Yes,” Miles repeated, nodding again, amused by Chase’s disbelief.

“The Miles Whitmore who inherited half the city from his father six years ago?”

Miles straightened, his smile widening. “Well,” he said, glancing around the room before returning his gaze to Chase, “I wouldn’t say half. Maybe a quarter. And the way you say ‘inherited’ sounds like I didn’t do anything to get where I am. But truth be known. My dad was very sick long before he died, and I ran things behind the scenes. Nobody knew.” He laughed lightly.

Chase blurted before he could stop himself, “I definitely had you pegged wrong.”

Miles’s smile faltered into confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh—uh…” Chase shook his head quickly and murmured, “I thought you were a cardiologist.”

Miles furrowed his brow, “Sorry?”

Oh my god, I said that out loud.

“Ne… never mind.”

“Sorry about your dad, by the way,” Chase said, the taste of old memories souring his mouth.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Miles flicked his hand as if brushing lint from the air. “My dad and I never got along. He ran the business like it was his stepchild—and treated me about the same.”

He snickered, the tension easing from his shoulders as he lifted his glass for another sip. When he looked back at Chase, his gaze lingered, curious in a way that had been there since the moment they first locked eyes.

Their gazes held, just for a beat—long enough for something unspoken to settle between them. Something burned there—quiet, steady, impossible for Chase to name. It wasn’t lust, not exactly. Not curiosity alone. It was something warmer, something that reached across the table and curled around him before he could pull back.

“So, you eat here often?” Miles asked, gesturing casually around the room.

Chase followed the sweep of his hand and let out a long, shaky exhale. “Yes—I mean, I have. I’ve eaten here a few times. Not enough to say ‘often’, but… you know… a few times. Enough to say… ‘a few times’.”  

Wow. Oh my god. What is wrong with me.

Miles’s smile widened as he leaned back in his chair. “Really.”

“Uh, yes.” Chase wished desperately for a glass, a fork, a knife anything to keep his hands occupied.

“I’ve been here a few times myself,” Miles said lightly. “But not enough to say ‘more than… a few times’.” He chuckled.

Chase felt heat crawl up his neck. “Sorry. I don’t… I don’t do this kind of thing often.”

“Just… a few times, then,” Miles teased, laughter warm and easy.

Chase couldn’t help it—he laughed too. And just like that, the tightness in his chest loosened, easing by a degree he hadn’t expected.

“I couldn’t tell.” Miles laughed again.

“Yeah,” Chase sighed, “it’s that obvious huh?”

Miles just nodded and sipped his water.

The waiter approached.

“What were you drinking, Chase?” Miles asked, his attention split between Chase and the server.

“I believe the gentleman was drinking Cabernet Sauvignon—Opus One, sir,” the waiter supplied.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Miles’s face at the interruption and the way the waiter announced the wine, but he let it pass and refocused on Chase. “Would you like another? And a fresh steak?”

“Oh—no, no, that’s not necessary.” Chase waved his hands quickly.

“Please bring us two glasses,” Miles said, ignoring the protest, “and a fresh steak for the gentleman. I’ll have the duck with potato gratin. Thank you.”

The waiter looked Chase up and down, his lip curling in a barely concealed grimace. Chase felt the embarrassment flare across his cheeks—he’d seen that look before, the kind that made him want to shrink into his chair. Chase did not have money, nor did he wear it.

Before Chase could react, Miles’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.

“Sir… did you hear our order?” Miles asked, tone firm and direct, the kind of voice that made people straighten their posture without thinking.

The waiter blinked, startled. “Yes,” he lowered his tone when he realized who he was talking to, “Mr. Whitmore, I—”

“Because your attention seems to be everywhere except where it should be,” Miles continued, his gaze cool and unyielding. “If there’s a problem, I’d like to know.”

Chase’s eyes widened. He wasn’t used to anyone stepping in for him—especially not like that.

The waiter swallowed. “No problem at all, sir.”

Miles tilted his head slightly, not breaking eye contact. “Good. Then I expect the same level of respect for my guest as you show me. Understood?”

The waiter’s face flushed. “Of course, sir. My apologies.” He bowed his head stiffly and retreated toward the kitchen.

Chase let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You didn’t have to do that.” Chase’s eyes stayed fixed on the waiter for a long moment until he disappeared into the kitchen.

Miles turned back to him, his expression softening instantly. “Yes,” he said calmly, “I did.”

Chase blinked. “Why?”

“Because I invited you to sit with me,” Miles said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “And no one disrespects someone I’m sharing a table with.”

Chase felt something warm unfurl in his chest—unexpected, unfamiliar, and dangerously comforting.

“You’re… kind of intimidating when you want to be,” Chase said with a nervous laugh.

Miles smirked. “Only when necessary.”

“And that was necessary?”

Miles leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into something warm and certain. “Absolutely.”

Chase looked down at his hands, smiling despite himself. “Thank you.” Worry was still hidden in his face.

Miles’s gaze softened even further. “You’re welcome, Chase.”

The air between them shifted again—closer, safer, threaded with something that felt like the beginning of trust.

“Well, after that show you gave me, I had to do something.” Miles laughed.

Chase glanced down at his damp pant legs and let out a small, embarrassed chuckle.

“I promise that’s not normal for me,” he said. “I’m usually pretty boring.”

“Not from where I’m sitting.” Miles’s laughter faded, replaced by a steady, intent gaze.

Chase snapped his eyes up, a sudden surge tightening in his chest.

“So… do you normally pick up nervous, weird guys at restaurants?” he asked, trying for humor but hearing the tremor in his own voice.

“No.” Miles leaned back, thoughtful. “Never. In fact, I haven’t been with anyone in a very, very long time. I’m usually too busy.”

“So, you just saw me over there and felt sorry for me?” Chase asked quietly.

“No.” Miles shook his head, slow and certain. “I saw you over there and I felt something I haven’t felt in many years.”

Chase’s breath caught. His eyes lifted, wide, and his chest tightened again—this time with something warm, unfamiliar, and dangerously hopeful.

“So,” Miles began, pausing as if weighing his words, “what brought you here tonight?”

Chase glanced around the room as though the answer might be hiding somewhere between the tables. “My steak.”

Miles laughed at the bluntness. “No, I mean… are you here alone often? Is there a Mrs. Chase?”

“Uh, no. Never.”

“I thought my instincts were right.” Miles smiled knowingly.

“You mean… your gaydar?” Chase asked, more statement than question.

Miles nodded once, “I knew as soon as I say you when I walked in.”

Chase smirked. He waited for a moment to let the words settle. “Well, you’re correct. Yes, I’m gay. I’m a Gold Star gay. Never been with a woman. Ever.”

Miles’s smile widened. “Ah! Well, you’re looking at a Platinum Gay, here.”

Chase blinked. “I’ll be honest, I’m surprised. I’ve never heard that you were gay.”

“Well, it’s not something I talk about much,” Miles said, lifting his water for a sip. “And it’s never come up in an interview. I’m sure plenty of journalists wanted to ask but were too afraid to.”

They sat quiet for a moment giving the waiter time to drop off their drinks.

Chase let out a small grunt—half amusement, half disbelief—unsure what to do with the sudden intimacy of the conversation.

“You certainly don’t mind sharing it with strangers.” Chase said as he took his first sip of his wine and gestured to himself.

“No, I’m not scared of it; but I don’t hang it on my sleeve either.” Miles moved his glass from side to side on the table.

“Oh, so you’re anti-pride then?” Chase’s eyes raised for a moment.

“Fuck, no. Let ‘em do their thing. I think if you’ve struggled and suffered you should be able to celebrate you’re freedom. I just wonder if it’s necessary to strip down to skanky clothes and parade it around. That’s all.” Miles asserted.

“Oh, so you don’t like naked men.” Chase smiled.

“God, there’s nothing more beautiful. I just would rather not admire it on Main Street.” Miles wrinkled his nose.

“I get that.” Chase nodded, smiled, and took another sip.

Another moment of silence stretched between them as they held each other’s gaze. Something unspoken pulsed in the space between their eyes—warm, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Chase felt it settle in his chest like a slow‑building heat.

“Alright,” Miles said softly, leaning in and resting his elbows on the table, “here comes a serious question.”

Chase’s breath caught. Miles’s voice had dropped into something deeper, something that made Chase’s pulse thrum in his ears.

But just as Miles opened his mouth to continue, the waiter arrived with their plates.

“Duck and potato gratin for you, Mr. Whitmore,” the waiter announced, placing the dish with practiced precision. “And a fresh steak and silky potato puree for the gentleman.”

Chase checked his watch, waiting for something only he seemed to understand. His eyes flicked from the waiter to Miles, then back again. Miles tilted his head, curious but silent.