From Frost to Flame

Part 53: Have Lunch with me

The meeting room was already buzzing when Pete walked in, laptop under his arm. Charts and numbers flashed on the big screen, the air thick with the weight of deadlines.

Kinn sat at the head of the table, scanning the agenda. "Let's make this quick. Tomorrow we close."

Pete slid into his seat. Across the table, Vegas was already there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture sharp. He didn't speak much, only adding short, precise comments when needed—but every time Pete glanced up from his notes, Vegas's eyes seemed to find him.

It wasn't overt. No one else would notice. But Pete felt it, like a silent pulse between them in the hum of strategy talk and project updates.

When the meeting wrapped, everyone scattered back to their desks. Pete lingered a second too long, packing up his laptop. Vegas passed behind him, close enough for Pete to catch the faint scent of his cologne.

Pete stepped out of the meeting room with his notes, planning to head straight back to his desk. But halfway down the corridor, a voice cut through the low hum of office chatter.

"Pete."

He turned. Vegas was leaning casually against the wall near his office door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the folder Pete had brought earlier. The hallway was unusually empty—most people were still deep in their post-meeting follow-ups.

"You forgot this," Vegas said, offering the folder.

Pete took it, their fingers brushing for barely a second. The contact was nothing, should've been nothing—but Pete still felt it run up his arm.

"Thanks," he said quickly.

Vegas paused just enough to say, low and deliberate,

"Had your lunch?"

Pete blinked up at him. "Not yet."

"Good." Vegas's gaze flicked toward his office. "Come by."

And then he was gone, leaving Pete holding his laptop like it weighed twice as much.

Pete hesitated outside Vegas's glass office door, half-expecting to find him buried in work and regretting the offer. Instead, Vegas was leaning back in his chair, scrolling through something on his tablet.

Without looking up, he said, "Close the door."

Pete obeyed, setting his laptop on the side table.

His eyes landed on the small table by the window. Two plates, steam curling from generous portions of curry and rice, sat waiting. His favourite.

He looked at Vegas and asked, "You... wanted to see me?"

Come sit here, Pete. Vegas asks him to sit on the empty chair beside the table.
With small steps, Pete reached the chair and sat

"You... ordered this?" Pete asked.

Vegas didn't look up from removing the lids. "For both of us."

Pete tried to keep his voice even. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," Vegas said simply, sliding a plate toward him. "Sit."

Pete sat, feeling oddly like he was in unfamiliar territory. Not the food—he knew the taste would be perfect—but the situation. This was deliberate. Planned.

Vegas poured them both water before sitting opposite him. "Eat before it gets cold."

Pete took a spoonful, and the flavour hit instantly—warm, rich, comforting in a way that caught him off guard. He hadn't had it like this in ages. He bit back a smile, lowering his gaze to his plate.

Across from him, Vegas ate without rushing, but Pete could feel the subtle weight of his attention.

"You like it," Vegas observed quietly.

Pete swallowed. "It's good."

The corner of Vegas's mouth tugged up—not smug, just... satisfied. "Thought so."

They ate in an easy silence. Pete found himself slowing down, not because he was full, but because he didn't really want it to end.

Halfway through, Pete's spoon caught awkwardly, and a bit of rice went down the wrong. He coughed, startled, and Vegas's reaction was instant—reaching for the water bottle, twisting it open, and setting it in Pete's hand.

"Careful," Vegas murmured, his fingers brushing Pete's just a second too long.

"Thanks," Pete managed, still clearing his throat.

"Don't rush," Vegas said, his voice softer now.

Pete gave a small, nervous laugh, trying to play it off. "You sound like you're used to bossing me around."

Vegas tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "Only when you need it."

Pete blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness under the calm tone. His stomach knotted—not just from the food.

They finished eventually, but Vegas didn't move to clear the table right away. He leaned back slightly, studying Pete as if memorizing the moment.

When Pete stood, the weight of that gaze followed him to the door.

"Next time," Vegas said quietly, deliberately, almost like a promise, "Let's have lunch together again... and I'll have something even better waiting."

Pete's lips twitched before he could stop them. "...Alright."

He stepped out into the corridor, heart beating far too fast for a simple lunch. Behind him, Vegas allowed himself a rare, unguarded smile—gone the instant someone passed by his office.

The rest of the day passed in a steady blur of emails, calls, and last-minute revisions, but Pete hardly minded. For once, the work felt lighter, softened by the memory of lunch lingering at the back of his mind. By evening, the office lights dimmed, one floor after another falling quiet.

Pete slung his laptop over his shoulder and stepped out into the cool night air. In the parking lot, he spotted Vegas unlocking his car—sharp lines softened under the glow of the streetlamps. Their eyes met across the distance, and this time, neither looked away too quickly. It wasn't a conversation, just a glance, but it carried the quiet warmth of something shared. Pete felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward before he could stop it, and he could've sworn Vegas's expression mirrored his own, subtle but there.

They turned away a moment later, heading home separately, but for the first time in a long while, the silence between them felt less like emptiness and more like promise.