Meeting Bill

Craig felt naked. Objectively, of course, that wasn't true. The mirror had confirmed that several times before he'd finally worked up the nerve to leave his room. The orange dress fit him well, hugging in places he didn't want to think too hard about. Pantyhose smoothed everything out beneath it, and the heels, as always, felt less like a choice and more like a necessity now.

Still.

Standing there in the apartment, keys in hand, Craig had felt like he was stepping out into the world without a layer of skin. Even now, walking beside Frank toward the car, that feeling hadn't gone away.

Nobody was staring. Nobody on the street had stopped, pointed, laughed. But it felt like they were.

Every step of those heels on pavement echoed just a little too loudly. Every shift of the dress across his thighs felt exaggerated, noticeable, wrong. And it didn't help at all that Frank had lost his mind when Craig finally stepped out of his room.

"Holy crap."

The words had come out of him like he'd just witnessed something life-changing.

Craig had paused in the hallway, immediately self-conscious. "What?"

Frank had leaned back slightly, looking him up and down with open admiration.

"Since when did you start dressing like an executive? I didn't even know you had clothes like that."

Craig had blinked. "Like...?"

"Like you're a shark moving into town to buy my company," Frank said, gesturing vaguely. "Like you're about to sit at the head of a boardroom table and fire the CEO."

Craig had glanced down at himself. "You mean this dress?"

"What do you think I mean, your panties?" Frank had laughed. "Come on, man. No wonder they want to promote you. Dress for the job you want, right?"

The memory made Craig wince faintly as he slid into the passenger seat now. Compliments. That's what that had been. And somehow they'd made everything feel worse.

The drive over was quieter than usual. Frank's hands rested a little tighter on the wheel. His attention flicked between the road and nothing in particular, like his thoughts kept pulling him elsewhere. Streetlights passed in steady intervals as the car moved through familiar neighbourhoods. Finally, Frank exhaled.

"Feels weird," he said.

Craig turned slightly in his seat. "What does?"

"My mom," Frank said, eyes still forward. "Dating again."

There was a pause.

"I mean, look, I want her to be happy," he added quickly. "Obviously. She deserves that. It's just..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "I don't even know how I'm supposed to act around the guy."

Craig leaned back, considering that.

Fair.

"Same as always," he said after a moment. "He's just a guy."

Frank huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. A guy dating my mom."

"Doesn't change who she is." Craig said. "She's still your mom. Still the same person who fed us enough food to last a week every time we came over."

That earned a real smile.

"Yeah," Frank said. "That's true."

Craig shrugged lightly. "And hey. Maybe he's alright."

"Maybe," Frank said.

Neither of them sounded completely convinced.

The car rolled to a stop along the curb. Craig's stomach tightened almost immediately, feeling nervous. Not for the same reason that Frank did. This was different.

Work was one thing. Strangers were one thing. Even the basketball court had felt oddly detached from reality. But this? This house held years of memories. Dinners. Holidays. Laughter that spilled out into the backyard on warm evenings.

Frank's mom wasn't just someone. She was family-adjacent. Close enough that her opinion mattered in a way Craig couldn't brush off.

Logically, he knew what would happen. She wouldn't see anything strange. She'd see normal clothes. The world had made that abundantly clear. If anything, showing up in jeans and a hoodie would raise eyebrows. But logic didn't do much to calm the nerves fluttering in his chest as they stepped out of the car and started up the sidewalk.

His heels clicked softly against the concrete. Each step felt deliberate. Measured. Unavoidable. Beside him, Frank shifted slightly.

"Hey," he said under his breath. "Thanks for coming."

Craig glanced over, offering a small, steady smile.

"Of course."

Then they reached the door. Craig lifted a hand and pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed inside.

A beat.

Two.

Then...

The door flew open.

"Frankie!!!"

Energy burst outward like a wave as his mother rushed forward, arms already wide. She practically launched herself at Frank, wrapping him up in a tight embrace.

"Oh my God, look at you! I feel like I haven't seen you in ages!"

"Mom," Frank laughed, slightly overwhelmed as always. "It's been, like, a week."

"Too long," she insisted, squeezing him again before finally letting go.

Then her attention snapped to Craig.

"And Frankie, I didn't know you were bringing your boss with you..."

Before Craig could react, she stepped in and pulled him into a hug just as strong.

"I'm just kidding, Craigie," she said warmly, giving him a squeeze. "No amount of fancy clothes could hide the fact that you two are still my boys."

Craig let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Good to see you too," he said, smiling despite himself.

"You must be Frank and Craig."

The voice came from just behind her.

Both of them looked up.

The man standing in the doorway filled the space easily. Middle-aged, broad-shouldered, with a kind of solid presence that felt grounded rather than imposing. His expression was open, friendly. He stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Bill."

Frank took it first. Craig followed a moment later. The handshake was firm. Rough. The kind of grip that came from years of working with his hands.

"Nice to meet you," Bill said.

"You too," Craig replied.

Introductions made, Frank's mom clapped her hands lightly.

"Alright, everyone in! Supper's almost ready," she said, already turning back toward the kitchen. "Go sit, relax, get to know each other. I'll call you when it's on the table!"

The house smelled incredible. Something savoury and warm filled the air as they stepped inside. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerously easy to forget everything else for a moment.

The living room hadn't changed since Craig's teenage years. Same couch. Same coffee table. Same slightly-too-large television in the corner. Frank dropped onto the couch beside Bill without thinking, settling in with an easy, familiar masculine sprawl. Bill mirrored it naturally.

Craig hesitated, then moved toward the Lay-Z-Boy. Sitting down required consideration. The dress would ride up if he wasn't careful. Too much movement, too much spread...

No.

Not an option.

He was not going to flash his panties at Frank's mom's new boyfriend.

Craig lowered himself carefully into the chair and crossed his legs, one over the other. Controlled. Contained. Deliberately protective.

Across from him, the conversation had already started.

"So, what do you do?" Frank asked.

"Bit of everything," Bill said with a shrug. "Mostly cars. Repairs, rebuilds. Been doing it a long time."

Frank nodded, trying to find footing. "Nice. I'm in finance. Mostly office stuff."

"Ah," Bill said. "Numbers guy."

A small pause. Not awkward, just... thin.

Then Bill's attention shifted.

"And you?" he asked, looking at Craig.

Craig straightened slightly.

"Shipping and receiving," he said. "Warehouse work."

Bill's face lit up just a little.

"Yeah?"

Craig nodded. "Yeah."

Bill leaned back, clearly more engaged now. "Did that for over a decade before I got into the shop full-time. Hard work."

There was something approving in his tone.

"Good work, though," Bill added. "Honest work. I like a man who knows how to sweat for a living."

On the couch, Frank's expression tightened just slightly. Craig noticed it. Filed it away.

Before anything else could be said, a voice called from the kitchen.

"Alright! Supper’s ready!"

Relief, immediate and shared, moved through the room. Everyone stood.

Craig smoothed the skirt of his dress automatically as he rose, making sure everything sat where it was supposed to.

No surprises. No accidents.

The group started toward the dining room together. Craig followed a step behind, heart still beating just a little faster than normal. Maybe this would be fine. Maybe they'd get through the night without any drama blowing up.

Not the kind of drama that came from showing up dressed like he was. The other kind. The kind where a son quietly decided he didn't like the man sitting at his mother's table.

The kind where small and quiet comments hardened into a problem that wouldn't stay small for long.