Chapter Text
Every Monday and Friday, like clockwork, he came in.
A young man with rose-colored hair, always arriving just past the lunch rush or as the dinner crowd thinned out. The hours when the lights dimmed a little lower and the kitchen slowed to a lazy rhythm. When I, conveniently, was on my break.
It wasn’t a secret—at least not a well-kept one—that I waited for him on those days. I lingered longer by the coffee machines, pretended to reorganize silverware just to glance up whenever the door opened. Just to see if it was him.
The first time it started… maybe it was the first time he walked in.
I remember him sitting near the window, bathed in the last stretch of afternoon light. Hands folded, posture poised, he stared out at nothing in particular. Was he waiting for someone? A date, maybe? A friend? Whoever it was—never came.
A shame, really. He looked like he’d gone through the effort. His hair was pulled back into a loose, neat tie, not a strand out of place. He wore a crisp black suit, tailored to fit like second skin, no tie, collar slightly open to reveal just a hint of gold chain. His shoes gleamed like they'd never touched real dirt, polished and expensive enough to put my rent to shame. Gold rings glinted on his fingers, matching earrings catching every bit of light like they were made to be admired.
He was striking. Unapologetically so.
I made my way over, notebook in hand, trying not to stare too much. “What can I get you, mate?” I asked with a smile, keeping my tone easy, warm.
He glanced up briefly. Crimson eyes met mine. Cold. Flat. Maybe guarded.
“I’m waiting for someone,” he said.
I nodded once, slipping the notebook into my apron. “Then I’ll be back in a bit.”
I walked away, weaving through empty tables, wiping down counters that didn’t need it. But every minute or two, my eyes found their way back to him.
He sat at the table with the patience of someone trying very hard not to lose it. At first, he refused to order—said he’d wait until his guest arrived. His hands stayed folded neatly in front of him, elbows never touching the table. But after five more minutes ticked by, his composure began to fray.
It was subtle. Most wouldn’t notice. But I saw the shift. The way his foot tapped under the table, just once, then again. The way his crimson eyes darkened—not with sadness, but sharp irritation, like venom just beginning to stir behind a smile he never bothered to fake.
I was nearly finished with my shift, ready to clock out and maybe grab something to eat. The thought of going home to a quiet apartment, of microwaving leftovers and sitting alone, gnawed at me more than usual.
So I glanced his way one last time. He looked ready to leave—like all he needed was one more disappointment to tip him over the edge.
I made a decision.
Wiping my hands on a dish towel tucked into my apron, I crossed the room and leaned slightly over his table. My blonde hair fell forward, brushing my cheek as I tilted my head and offered a smile.
“Hey, mate,” I said gently, “want some company?”
He looked up at me, surprised. His eyes widened just a fraction, like I’d caught him off guard. But after a pause, he nodded once and gestured to the seat across from him.
He still didn’t speak. But I took his silence in stride and slid into the chair opposite him.
I knew the menu by heart, could probably recite every special in my sleep—but that didn’t stop me from pretending to skim it. My eyes danced over the pages, but nothing stuck. I didn’t want to order something that would make me look ridiculous. Pasta felt safe enough. Hard to mess up and not too messy to eat in front of someone like him.
I peeked over the edge of the menu. “So… who’s the unlucky person that stood you up?”
Instantly, I realized how that might’ve sounded. Too forward. Maybe too cruel.
But before I could backpedal, he threw his head back and laughed.
It wasn’t a polite chuckle—it was the real kind. Loud, rough around the edges, like it had caught him off guard just as much as me. I caught myself smiling, warmth spreading across my face at the sound. His laughter was unpolished, almost boyish, and suddenly he didn’t look so intimidating.
That was when I noticed the scar, slicing across the bridge of his nose. It should’ve made him look dangerous—and maybe it did, at first—but paired with the way he was snorting into his hand, wiping at his eyes like my dumb joke had really landed? It just made him look even more charming.
When he finally calmed enough to speak, his smile had faded from his face, but I could still hear it, tucked softly in his voice.
“It wasn’t a date,” he said, voice warm and relaxed. “It was a—” he hesitated for a second, “—a business opportunity.”
The pause was short, but telling. He was lying. Or maybe just trying to soften the truth.
I didn’t call him on it. Just nodded, letting him keep the excuse.
Business or not, whoever bailed on him was clearly an idiot. He was sharp, handsome, and had a laugh that could light up a room—if only he let it.
“You’re quite rude, you know,” he said, swirling the glass of wine he'd ordered earlier, his voice light with teasing. He took a sip, lips curling into a small smile. There was amusement in his eyes now, something sharp but playful. “Can I at least get a name?”
I held out my hand. “Philza Craft,” I said with a grin. “But you can call me Phil.”
He took my hand in his. His grip was firm, calloused. “Technoblade.”
I blinked. “Huh. That makes sense now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What does?”
“Why your date stood you up. With a name like that, she probably thought you were catfishing her.”
He choked out a laugh, the sound rough and genuine as he shook his head. “Ruthless,” he said between chuckles.
The laughter didn’t quite stop until our meals arrived, the clinking of plates and the soft murmur of the few remaining patrons briefly filling the space between us.
Dinner, surprisingly, wasn’t awkward. Conversation came easier than I’d expected. We found ourselves bouncing from topic to topic, laughing over shared interests—gardening, old stories about sword collecting, and even his absurd devotion to a potato farm he apparently ran online. He spoke with a proud tilt of his chin about a time he, as a younger man, had crushed the hopes and dreams of some poor kid who was beating him in a tournament.
“And really,” he added, nearly giddy with triumph, “what kind of name is SquidKid?”
It shouldn’t have been funny. Not really. But the sheer pride in his voice, the slight sparkle in his crimson eyes as he told the story like a war hero recounting a legendary battle—it made me laugh until my sides hurt.
His smile was contagious. And worse—something I found myself wanting to see again.
The way his eyes lit up when he spoke—just barely, a flicker of something unguarded—said more than his face ever would. His expression remained calm, composed, but that spark behind his eyes? That was real.
It made me wish this night would never end.
When the bill finally came, I shifted in my seat, reluctant to break the moment. “This was nice,” I said, voice casual. “Better than a night out alone, eh, mate?”
Technoblade nodded, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll admit,” he said, “the company change was better than I would have imagined.”
He leaned forward slightly as he spoke, and for a heartbeat, the space between us narrowed. His hand drifted across the table, fingers inching closer to mine—not quite touching, but close enough to make my pulse skip.
I smiled, drawing my hand away, resting it behind my neck in an easy stretch. “That so?” I teased. “Glad I didn’t bore you to sleep.”
He chuckled, low and amused, before reaching for his wine again.
Just then, Tubbo—one of the younger waitstaff—approached with the bill. He glanced between us and gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. His smile was a little too knowing, a little too bright.
He set the check down between us. “Here you are,” he said, voice chipper. “Hope everything was good.” He looked at me and grinned wide.
I gave him a nod, raising a brow. He looked like he had something more to say, but instead he just grinned and walked off, no doubt saving his thoughts to chatter my ear off later.
As I glanced back across the table, Technoblade was already reaching for the bill. Technoblade pulled out more than enough cash from his wallet, the bills crisp between his fingers.
“Hey—mate, I got this,” I said quickly, already reaching for my own wallet.
“It’s fine,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet fondness. “Consider it thanks for the company.”
“It just doesn’t feel right,” I argued, trying to laugh it off. “I mean, technically I butted in on your meal.”
He tilted his head, giving me that same unreadable look from earlier. “Then consider it payment for good service.”
I chuckled, even though it felt forced. “Roundabout way of giving a tip. But I didn’t do this for money. I just—”
My words stuck in my throat.
I hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really. But the truth had already started slipping through the cracks. I didn’t do this for money. I just didn’t want to eat dinner alone.
The silence that followed stretched too long, too thin, and I could feel the weight of it start to settle. I saw the look shift in his eyes, felt the air around us thicken with something I didn’t want to name.
Sympathy. Curiosity. Concern.
I couldn’t stand any of it.
So I dropped the cash on the table. “Sorry. Sorry,” I mumbled, already rising from my seat, my chair scraping back a little too hard against the floor.
“Phil—Phil, Philza,” he called out after me, but I didn’t turn back. I couldn’t. I couldn’t take that look on his face. The one that always came after people learned too much. The one that meant they were already planning the distance they'd put between us.
I picked up my pace, walking faster, blinking hard against the sting behind my eyes.
I didn’t slow down until I was in my car, hands shaking just slightly as I gripped the steering wheel. The engine turned over, and only when I’d pulled out onto the road—far enough away that he couldn’t see me—I let myself breathe. I didn’t want him to see me, finally break down.
A few days passed. No sign of pink hair. No sign of the handsome, dateless man.
Good. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.
There was no reason for an old fool like me to get wrapped up in someone like him—someone younger, sharper, dressed in gold and shadows. I should’ve just been grateful he entertained dinner at all. A kind stranger humoring an aging waiter. That was all.
No need to get sentimental about a conversation. About a laugh. About how warm his voice had been when he’d said my name.
I had made a fool of myself. Pulled away when I should’ve stayed, said too much, left without looking back. Whatever he might’ve felt—if he felt anything at all—I ruined it. I was strange. Awkward. Pitiful.
I shook my head, setting my jaw as I stepped into the kitchen for my shift. This was why I worked. Why I came in early, stayed late, scrubbed counters that didn’t need it. Work was predictable. Mindless, even. And for eight blessed hours, I didn’t have to think about anything else.
That was the blessing.
And it worked—right up until the dinner rush thinned out and I had nothing left to hide behind but an apron and a fake smile.
I grabbed my notepad, heading toward a table someone had just sat down at. Habit. Focus. Greet the guest. Take the order.
But as I neared, I slowed.
“Hello, welcome to—”
I fumbled, eyes dropping to my notepad as I searched for my pen, trying to keep my hands steady. He looked up at me just as I froze. The pen was already in my fingers. I hadn’t even noticed.
“Phil.”
My name, spoken low and deliberate. I looked up slowly, blinking as I registered the man in front of me.
Technoblade.
His bright pink hair was pulled back into a ponytail this time—less styled than before, looser, softer. He wore a white collared shirt with the top buttons undone and a pair of dark slacks. No jacket, no shine-polished shoes. Still proper. Still expensive. But casual—at least, casual for him.
The gold jewelry was still there, glinting around his throat and fingers, as ever. The man had a way of making it look like it belonged to him by birthright. His expression was unreadable. Eyes steady. Face blank.
I had tried—really tried—not to think of him after that night. But now, standing there, I realized how much I had failed at that.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t tell me—dumped again?” I joked weakly, hoping levity might clear the air between us.
It didn’t.
Not even the hint of a chuckle escaped him. He just stared.
My grip tightened around the notebook, the cheap paper digging into my hand. The dining room was empty. No customers, no noise. Just the two of us. Tubbo was in the back on break, probably halfway through his sandwich and blissfully unaware.
I considered calling for him. Just casually asking him to come out early, maybe swap shifts. It wouldn’t take much. Just a word. A nudge. I was good at those kinds of small, quiet exits.
But I didn’t move.
Because he hadn’t looked away.
I let out an awkward laugh, trying to slice through the thick silence between us. “It’s fine, mate. I can grab your waiter from last time—make things less weird, yeah?”
I was already half-turned to leave, rehearsing the exit in my head, when his hand caught my wrist.
It wasn’t harsh. Not tight. Just… there. Firm enough to stop me. Gentle enough that I could’ve pulled away.
I didn’t.
“Sit,” he said. Not quite a request. Not quite a command either. Somewhere in between.
I hesitated for a beat, then lowered myself into the seat across from him. My gaze dropped immediately to the table, the wood suddenly fascinating—my thumb tracing the faint scratches in the finish like I could disappear into them. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.
It felt like being back in school, sitting across from a teacher, waiting for the lecture I knew I deserved.
His hand slipped away, but the warmth it left on my skin lingered longer than I expected.
“Phil?”
I looked up before I could stop myself. His red eyes caught mine—and held them. For a moment, everything else slipped away.
“I apologize,” he said, voice steady but quieter than before. “If I did something to offend you… that was never my intention.”
That hit harder than I expected. Guilt twisted in my chest like a dull knife.
I reached out instinctively, palm raised in apology. “No. No, it’s not you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
My voice cracked just slightly. I swallowed hard, forcing a thin smile. “You asked a fair question. I was the one who made it weird. I panicked. I… I’m sorry for running out like that.”
“All right then…” he said, voice a little lighter. “Is it fine if I keep coming back here?”
“For more bad pasta?” I grinned, finally exhaling a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Anytime, Tech.”
He smiled at the nickname—small, but genuine.
“It’s not that bad,” he argued, faintly offended.
I rolled my eyes. “Sure it’s not. Just don’t act surprised when your dates don’t want a second one. Not with your tragic food tastes. Too bad, really… You’re a handsome one.”
The compliment slipped out easily, like it was just part of the teasing—but the smile that followed was real, wide and warm, because I knew then: I hadn’t ruined this.
He laughed, shaking his head. “It was business, Phil,” he said, with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And I guess it’s fine… since you’ve got good taste.”
I stood up with a smirk. “Sure. Whatever you’re calling it nowadays.”
He tilted his head slightly. “So… do you know what you want to eat?”
“Anything,” he said, eyes following me. “As long as you keep me company.”
“You know,” I said, folding my arms playfully, “you’re going to have a hell of a time getting rid of me when that time comes.” I laughed into my hand, not expecting a reply. But when I glanced back at him, I paused.
His eyes were steady—serious. A quiet, unreadable intensity behind them.
“I’m hoping on that,”
“I’ve got some time now,” I said, glancing toward the kitchen. “I’ll bring out your food and then take my break. If you’re still offering—”
“The world, Phil.”
I rolled my eyes, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation at how easily he flirted. Always so smooth.
A grin tugged at my lips. “Some nice bookshelves would fit into my apartment better,” I said offhandedly, tossing it out like a joke.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Sure. Where do you live?”
Deadpan. No smirk. No wink. Just pure commitment to the bit.
I snorted, shaking my head. “I’ll get the food, mate. Just wait here.”
I turned, heading toward the kitchen with a laugh still lingering in my chest. But I could feel his eyes on me the entire walk back—like sunlight through a window. Quiet. Warm. Steady.
And I had a feeling he was matching my grin with one of his own.
I wonder, sometimes… If I’d known back then what I was getting myself into—would I have run the other way?
Or straight into his arms.