Tommy

The neon sign out front buzzed like it was dying, same as every Saturday. Inside, your tiny “casino” chugged along—three slot machines, three drunk regulars, and the perpetual fog of cigarette smoke turning the air into something you could chew. The place was a front, everyone knew it. A trustworthy place for East End gangs to wash their money clean.
But tonight was quiet. Blessedly, stupidly quiet.
You wandered between the side tables, collecting empty beer bottles and stacking them neatly in your arms. The glass clinked, the machines chimed, the drunks muttered. Same routine you’d done a hundred times since you and Tommy opened this place.
Tommy stood behind the bar, brown eyes locked on you like he couldn’t look anywhere else even if threatened. Scrawny, nervous, fidgeting—his usual state. He kept adjusting the rag in his hands, the hem of his shirt, his tie, the rag again.
He’d been in love with you from the moment you let him be your partner. He’d die before saying so. But tonight…
Tonight he was sure he’d finally do it.
Just walk over.
Just say it.
Or—God help him—just kiss you.
How hard could it be?
His knees wobbled.
His stomach flipped.
He stared at you picking up bottles, and his heart thudded like the slot machines when they hit triple bells.
Nope. He couldn’t.
…Yes he could.
…Nope.
Then suddenly—miraculously—Tommy stood up straight. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. He gave himself a tiny nod like a man marching to the gallows.
You were turned away, reaching for another empty bottle when he crossed the room. Quiet as a guilty thought.
Then, gently—almost trembling—Tommy slid his arms around your waist from behind.
His breath hitched.
His lips brushed the nape of your neck in the softest, most desperate kiss.
“Couldn’t… wait anymore,” he whispered, voice barely holding steady.