Part 1: The Spark of Discipline
Living up to its pretentious name, Bistro Bistro had a self-consciously sleek ambience particular to the upper tier of the city’s dining scene: cool lighting, leather banquettes, waitstaff in minimalist black, and wine lists that read like doctoral dissertations. It was the kind of place Mike wouldn’t have chosen himself—he preferred something cozier, more homestyle cooking and less performance art—but tonight Frank was celebrating surviving a particularly hellish client project, and Mike, ever gracious, had let him pick the restaurant.
They sat tucked into a semi-private alcove near the window, their fingers brushing across the crisp table linen as they shared a plate of olives and sipped on Tempranillo. Mike, as always, wore his quiet elegance like a second skin. With salt-and-pepper stubble, thin glasses framing his intelligent eyes, and a voice that rarely rose above a murmur, Mike knew how to disappear in a room unless he wanted to be noticed. Frank loved that about him.
But tonight, someone else wanted attention.
Brandon Carr.
Frank had recognized the voice before he turned. It was impossible not to. All week long, Frank and his team had been subjected to their client’s bombastic, drawling tone. A malcontent in every sense of the word, Brandon had repeatedly erupted in meetings without provocation, bulldozing over junior associates for asking clarifying questions, and demanding cold brew as if he’d personally discovered caffeine.
Tall and broad shouldered, Brandon Carr never stopped reminding people that he’d once played varsity lacrosse and still had the thighs to prove it. His navy suit was tailored to showcase his body—biceps taut beneath rolled sleeves, shirt open at the neck to expose a triangle of tanned chest, and a gold chain gleaming like entitlement itself.
“Excuse me,” he bellowed to the waiter, a slight young man with eyes that darted like a cornered animal. “This is Bourgogne. I ordered Barolo. Do you know the difference? Or do they not teach that at waiter school?”
Frank stiffened. “Jesus,” he muttered, lowering his glass. “I should have known he’d come here.” He leaned forward with a whisper. “That’s Brandon. I told you about him.”
Mike’s smile was faint, almost indulgent. “The rude one with the obscene client budget?”
“Obscenely rude, yes.”
Brandon was still going. “Do you see me in a beret, Françcois? No? Then bring me the goddamn Barolo.”
Frank buried his face in his hands. “I can’t. This is mortifying.”
Mike touched his wrist lightly. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll handle it.”
Frank looked up, brow furrowed. “Mike…”
But Mike was already rising from his seat, smoothing the front of his charcoal blazer and walking calmly toward the restrooms. There was nothing hurried in his steps, but Frank noticed that telltale flicker behind Mike’s glasses—the gleam that meant something was shifting beneath the surface. Something electric.
A few moments later, the air in the bistro changed. A hush rippled through the room like a drawing inward of breath. Even the clink of utensils on crockery seemed to mute. And he appeared.
DadMan.
He stepped through the entrance with the unhurried grace of someone who knew he belonged, every inch of him wrapped in skintight electric blue. The suit glared with a subtle shimmer like silk stretched over armor, highlighting DadMan’s powerful thighs, sculpted chest, and the tapered V of his waist. His gloves were black, matte, and understated. The DadMan insignia, two barbecue spatulas crossed over a shield, cast dazzled reflections across the restaurant, causing diners to squint.
Heads turned. Conversation stalled. And Brandon, oblivious, waved his hand in the air impatiently.
“Finally,” he said, without even looking. “Someone competent?”
DadMan said nothing. He simply moved behind Brandon’s chair, standing impossibly tall and shoulders squared, his presence like a blade unsheathed. The waiter backed away silently. And then Brandon felt it.
The stillness. The expectation. He glanced up, the beginnings of a scoff on his lips, but stopped. His gaze caught on the radiant blue, the way it clung to thighs like second skin. He tracked up, past the flat, hard stomach, the broad chest, to the face: half –shadowed, unsmiling, with piercing gray eyes that pinned him in place.
Brandon opened his mouth. “What the hell are you—”
His voice cracked. Just the once, but it cracked.
A single bead of sweat slipped down the side of his neck. DadMan didn’t move. Not a word. He merely reached out, slowly and calmly, and laid one black-gloved hand on Brandon’s shoulder.
The touch wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even firm. But it expected something.
Brandon responded. He sat straighter. His voice died in his throat. His hand, previously waving for attention, dropped slowly to his thigh.
“Apologize,” DadMan said, voice low and resonant. “Now.”
There was no force behind it. But Brandon’s body obeyed before his mind could protest.
He turned toward the waiter, eyes wide. “I—I’m sorry. I was out of line. Please bring whatever you think would pair best.”
The waiter blinked, startled.
Brandon’s hands trembled slightly as he pulled out his wallet. “And—uh—a tip. For your trouble. A hundred, no. One-fifty.”
He glanced back at the glowing blue figure behind him, breath catching.
DadMan leaned in, lips brushing the air near his ear. “Better.” Then, just like that, he stepped away, and the world resumed.
Frank kept his eyes trained on the restrooms awaiting his partner’s return, his face pressed into his palm to hide the smirk he couldn’t wipe off his face. A few seconds later, Mike emerged, his blazer slightly uneven at the shoulders, his tie looser than before. He resumed his seat and raised his glass of Tempranillo.
“Did I miss anything?”
Later that night, Brandon Carr lay sprawled across silk sheets in his darkened hotel suite, city lights flickering against the ceiling like heat lightning. His dress shirt was unbuttoned, belt hanging loose, tie still knotted around his neck. His hand stroked slowly, languidly, as if he were savoring each drag of pleasure with reverence.
His thoughts weren’t on wine, or waiters, or even quarterly earnings. They were on the man in electric blue. On the glove that touched him, it had the right. On the command that made his body obey.
He bit his lip, hips jerking with tension, and came with a strangled sound, a mix of surrender and longing, as he whispered into the silence:
“Please… correct me again.”
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“Bistro Bistro” made me 😂