“He’s a patient.” I take a bigger swallow of whiskey.
“A patient who had you turning bright red when I made that comment about you trying it with a man.” Bobby’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Oh my god, did something happen between you two? Did you finally—”
“Can we change the subject?” I cut him off, desperate to stop whatever he’s about to say. “What the hell are these things, anyway?” I point to the collection of bizarre little creatures hanging from his leather backpack—oddly shaped, vaguely demonic-looking plush keychains that seem to multiply every time I see him.
Bobby gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m doing but will allow the subject change. For now.
“They’re not ‘things,’ Riley. They’re Labubus.” He detaches one from his bag and sets it on the bar—a green monstrosity with oversized eyes and fangs. “This one’s called Ququ.”
“Uh-huh.” I poke at it skeptically. “And what exactly is a Labubu?”
Bobby sighs dramatically. “They’re collectible toys. They’re designed by this amazing artist from Hong Kong. Each one has a different personality and story.” He picks up the green creature, stroking its head with his thumb. “They’re valuable.”
I stare at the thing. It’s ugly as sin, all bulging eyes and pointy teeth. “If you say so. To me, it looks like something that would eat your soul while you sleep.”
“Take that back!” Bobby clutches the Labubu to his chest in mock horror. “Don’t listen to him, Ququ. He’s a grumpy old man who has no idea—”
He stops mid-sentence as a man with a mop of golden curls and huge blue eyes approaches the bar beside us. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five, with the kind of boyish good looks that make people do double-takes. He flags down River with easy familiarity.
“Cain!” River calls over. “What’s up?”
“Another round for the table,” the man—Cain—says, gesturing to the Station 13 group.
Bobby smoothly shifts his body toward Cain, deploying his most charming smile. “Are you celebrating anything?”
Cain turns, taking in Bobby with a quick glance. “It’s the end of the shift, and we’re all alive. That’s always worth celebrating in our line of work.” He grins, and it transforms his already handsome face into something almost too bright to look at directly.
“I’ll drink to that.” Bobby raises his blue concoction. “I’m Bobby, by the way. This is my brother, Riley.”
I nod a greeting, watching my brother work. Bobby’s flirting is an art form—subtle enough to be friendly if the interest isn’t reciprocated, but clear enough for those who want to pick up what he’s putting down.
“Cain Dawson.” He extends a hand, which Bobby takes immediately. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
Bobby doesn’t release Cain’s hand right away. “The pleasure’s all mine. Are you here alone, or…?”
Cain laughs, a warm sound that carries even over the bar noise. He gently extracts his hand from Bobby’s grip and holds it up, displaying a simple band on his ring finger. “Not alone, and not available. Sorry, babe.”
“Tragic,” Bobby sighs, but his smile doesn’t falter. He gestures toward the firefighter table. “So which one is the lucky man?”
“The one with dark hair at the end of the table,” Cain says, looking back at the man with a dreamy expression on his face.
I follow his gaze to find a muscled, imposing guy in his late thirties with a strong jawline and evening stubble that gives him a ruggedly handsome look.
Bobby clutches his chest in mock despair. “All the good ones are taken.” His eyes scan the table again. “What about those two? The tall one with the dark hair and his friend?”
Cain follows his gaze and laughs. “Sullivan and Martinez? They do like guys… so much that they’re dating each other.” He leans in closer. “And before you ask, they don’t like to share.”
“Bummer,” Bobby says with a theatrical pout. “They’re hot together though.”
“Oh, they definitely are,” Cain confirms with a smile.
Bobby’s gaze shifts to another firefighter sitting slightly apart from the group, nursing a beer. He’s wearing glasses and has a more reserved demeanor than the others. “What about him? The hot nerd with the glasses?”
“That’s Eddie Morgan,” Cain shrugs. “But he’s straight.”
“Are you sure?” Bobby squints. “My gaydar is pinging.”
“Pretty sure.” Cain’s order arrives: a tray of beers and two whiskeys. He hoists it with practiced ease. “But you’re welcome to try your luck. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”