3. Blaine's POV

"Hey, Nightbird, look who's walking by!" Sam picked up the bucket of clean dishes from the table he'd been setting and knocked my shoulder as he passed, using his head to gesture out the front windows at the busy street. His tone was playful, but I still glowered.

"I...I told you specifically not to call me that anymore!" I hissed, and I shoved him towards the kitchen. He bounded off, his laugh ringing through the air. I wanted to be angry with him, and I wanted to avoid doing anything he'd tease me for later, but I couldn't stop myself from dropping down at an empty table to look out the window, just like he knew I would. The thing is though, that this guy...

He was gorgeous. Like, I wouldn't have been surprised if he turned out to be a model or something. And nearly every day since he'd been in my restaurant, he passed in front of Bella Vita on his way to God-knows where and back. If you knew him, if you'd ever seen anyone like him, you'd understand. And so every time he went by, I just looked. I imagined things, like where he worked or what he ate for breakfast that morning. I imagined what it would be like to go on a date with him.

Sure enough, he was beautiful as ever when he walked by that morning. He had this, like...chestnut color hair, and that might not even be the right word for it, but it was the best shade hair could ever be, I think. And that day, his hair was styled upward in a coiffure, and he wore a brooch that looked interesting, but I couldn't see it well enough to know for sure what it was. I sighed and rested my chin on the heel of my hand.

"Blanderson, is that drool or is it just a new accessory?" Santana called from across the room. I stood up quickly and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. It came away dry, and I scowled.

"I did not..."

She stuck a shot glass under the counter and laughed. "Gullible, much?"

"Do I have to remind you that I'm your boss? I can dock your paycheck!" I said, and I thought that'd be the end of it. I honestly didn't think Santana would push the subject if I told her it would cost her some money. But no, she kept right on talking.

"But you won't. Let's face it - you're the nicest guy on the God-damned planet, and you have it bad for a guy you've never even met. And that's your life right now." She shrugged as she picked up a disinfectant spray to scrub the counters. "It's sad, and you're so pathetic that you won't even do anything about it. You don't dock my paycheck because you know that Auntie San's psychic Mexican third eye is right; you just don't want to admit it."

"I don't even know he's gay, Santana," I groaned. Santana was one of those people that could knock any and all energy you possessed out of you in five seconds flat, even it was seven a.m. on a Tuesday and you were so completely wired on coffee that it would have been impossible in that moment to sleep.

Santana threw her head back and cackled, actually cackled, and a grin the size of Texas split across her face. "I've seen the way the guy dresses, man. He's gay. At the very least, bi, because if I weren't a lesbian, I would totally tap that."

I dropped my face into my palm, my nose making a snuffling noise when I breathed deeply. "His dressing habits have nothing to do with his sexuality, San, and you know what, neither does the fact that you'd 'tap that', okay?"

"Sure, whatever you say, Boss."

"You're impossible."

"I try."

I nodded stiffly and went to turn on the open light at the door. "Sure."

*

A few more days passed. I stared, Santana gave me hell for it, and when I stopped telling her to back off, Sam took it as a sign that I didn't really care and joined in. And it all boiled down to a not-so-glamorous moment in the kitchen, right before closing.

"Blaine. It wouldn't be hard to track the guy down. Just do it. You'd probably come away from the experience a little less tight-assed, if you know what I mean..." Santana was perched on the edge of the sink, and the smirk she had across her face made me want to throw a pan at her cartoon-style, but I just clenched my fists. Santana was like an elementary school bully. If I didn't, she'd figure out eventually that she couldn't get a rise out of me and would stop. Except for when she didn't. And this was one of those times.

"Yeah, maybe," I agreed through my teeth. Santana just cackled.

"Seriously though, Man, you could use a good night out. Couldn't he, Puck?"

And then, God, Puck took the bait. He was basically Santana's male counterpart, and the idea of them building an innuendo storm together was enough to make me want to vomit.

"He could, San. Maybe he'd cut me a little more slack when I 'don't roll the napkins right'."

Santana grinned, her eyes a mix of happiness (because what made her happier than teasing me?) and pure evil. "Or, maybe he'd be so busy sucking face with some guy that he wouldn't catch me if I tried to take a shot on the jo-"

"Allright guys, I get it. Now can you please stop being so invested in my personal life that I feel like I need to walk on eggshells in my own restaurant?" I cut her off, closing my eyes tightly.

"Jesus, man, no need to get so defensive," Puck said, and that was all it took to make the rage set in.

It was no secret that I was in possession of an extremely short temper. My parents tried to joke about it when I was around, but the truth was, when I was living at home, they were scared to death that one day I'd get too angry, rear back, and punch one of them in the face. It's part of why I took up boxing.

"Puck, one more word out of you, and I swear to god, I will fire you. I'm going to take out the trash." I tore the trash bag out of the bin in the corner and stormed out of the kitchen, trying to calm myself down. I wouldn't fire Puck, that was just me blowing smoke, but I didn't trust myself in there with all the sharp and/or heavy cooking utensils.

The air was wispy and dry when I walked outside onto the front steps, just cool enough to ease the heat that had begun to envelop me. I sighed, deep and heavy. It seemed like I was the only person in the world who's love life could be made into a joke. I mean, really. Here I was, standing out front because I was too angry to simply walk out the back to the dumpster. It was pathetic.

I took a step onto the sidewalk, and I instantly collided with someone, tripping backwards. I dropped the trash in an attempt to catch myself, and it went skidding down the sidewalk, tearing open on a small groove in the pavement. I landed flat on my stomach, with my wrist pressed under me in an extremely uncomfortable angle. I groaned.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" someone said, their voice filled with panic. And their voice. It was familiar in the best possible way. I slowly turned over onto my back, and sure enough, it was the man I'd been obsessing over for the past few days.

"You!" I said, using my left hand to push myself into a sitting position. "I know you! You were in my restaurant a few days ago!"

The man nodded. "Yeah, I was. Here, let me help you up." He held out his hand and I reached up to clasp it with my right hand. When he tugged, I pulled back in pain.

"Ow," I winced, cradling my wrist. "I think it might be broken? God, I'm such a klutz."

The man shook his head. "No, you aren't. I'm the one who ran in to you. Okay, let's try this." This time he reached for my left hand and pulled, and when I was far enough off the ground, he put his hand on my back and pushed me the rest of the way onto my feet. "Do you need a ride to the emergency room? My apartment's really close, and I've got my car there."

"Oh, no thanks," I assured him. "I'll just get someone from back inside to drive me." I gestured over my shoulder.

"We've been talking all of ten seconds and you're already oozing gentleman. Please, I insist. It's the least I can do, after running you over like that," the man pleaded, and I sighed.

"Look, I don't even know your name..." I started.

The man shook his head and grabbed my good hand, pulling me down the street. "Good thing the ride to the hospital is long."

*

The man's car was a small sedan with impeccably clean seats and shiny windows. I had muttered a thank you when he held the passenger side door open for me, and that had been the last thing I'd said for the past ten minutes. The man drove in silence, and I could sense he was waiting for me to talk first, but I wasn't sure what to say. I was sitting in a stranger's car with a broken wrist, defenseless, and for whatever bizarre reason, I didn't mind. Which is why I tried to keep quiet.

The man coughed a few minutes later, and finally some words escaped my mouth.

"You're not taking me somewhere to kill me, are you?" I deadpanned, looking out the window.

He snorted. "You caught me. I was going to take you to a field and beat you over the head with the shovel in my trunk." He paused, a grin on his face. "No, I'm not."

"What's your name?"

"Kurt. You're Blaine, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"So, Blaine. Tell me. What do you do for a living?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You know what I do."

"Pretend I don't. Pretend I've never stepped foot in your restaurant before today. Explain to me what you do for a living, and why. What do you get out of it?" Kurt's profile was hard to read, and I found myself looking at my hands, one drawing shapes on my knee and the other lying limp at my side.

"Um," I started, "I run a restaurant. It's something I always wanted to do, because my dad ran a pizza place in Chicago, and everyone thought I was crazy, but, you know. I did it anyway."

"Do you regret it?" Kurt asked.

I thought for a moment. Sure, there were times when I absolutely wanted to punch a hole through the wall (see: twenty minutes before this), but I really didn't regret a thing. "...No. I don't, actually. It's infuriating...but it's what makes me happy."

"That's good," approval was evident in Kurt's voice, "people should always try to stick to doing the things they know they won't regret. Life's too short."

"What about you?" I turned in my seat to face Kurt, even though he couldn't do the same. "What do you do?"

"Well, I'm definitely a serial killer on the side," Kurt laughed, "but during the day, I masquerade as a food critic."

My heart sank. Food critic. If it there was one unspoken rule, it was that no chef should ever be interested in one. "Really? I didn't have you pegged as the type."

"What, self absorbed and picky enough to be a toddler? Yeah, no. That's not me." Kurt shook his head.

However, the rule was unspoken, so I supposed that I could overlook it...

"What started you in the business, then?"

"My dad had a heart attack when I was in high school, and I went health-food crazy on him," Kurt said. "I got obsessed with finding good food, and when all was said and done, it seemed like a good fit."

"That's actually...very sweet, I guess, that you were concerned like that," I said, picking my words carefully.

"He was all I had," Kurt returned in explanation, as if that was enough.

Something in my chest tightened at the comment. "Yeah," I said, "I understand."

*

"So, here we are," I said as Kurt and I walked up in front of my apartment door. "Thanks again." I spared a brief glance at the blue cast that was now on my wrist and would be for the next six-to-eight weeks.

"Here we are," Kurt echoed. We stood in silence for a moment before he looked at his watch and cleared his throat. "I should probably, ah, go. See you around, I guess?"

He turned to walk away, and I panicked. "Wait!"

Kurt turned around. "What?"

"Um...I was wondering if you might want to go on a date with me next weekend," I mumbled.

"What?" Kurt's eyebrow crooked. "I didn't catch that?"

I took a deep breath. "Go on a date with me next weekend."

Kurt's eyes lit up, and my heart soared, because that was all it took for me to know the answer before he actually spoke.

"Yes. Definitely. Um, do you have a pen and a pad of paper?" he asked, patting around his legs, as if he could have put a pad of paper in one of his skin-tight pockets.

"Um, no..." I stuck my hand in the inner pocket of my apron, which in my haste to get out of the restaurant, I had failed to remove. I came away with the sharpie I used to mark to-go orders. "Oh! I have a marker!"

Kurt grinned. "Perfect." He marched forward, took the sharpie, uncapped it, and began scribbling on my cast.

"Oh my god," I craned my neck back to look at the ceiling. "This is so cliché!"

"Hey, if it works, it works," Kurt laughed. "Here." He handed me the sharpie. "Make sure to put that in your phone before someone writes over it, okay? Text me when you want to make plans."

He left, and I went inside. I turned on the lamp I had sitting in the living room and held my arm under the sparse light to see what he had written.

Save the hard-falling for the bigger folk next time, m'kay? -Kurt <3

I am not ashamed to say that I fist-pumped.