I start on the forms straight away though. Having an outsider say the ideas are good has made it more real. Not a pipe dream anymore, but something that might happen.

I'm in my office, absorbed in them, and it takes a rough roll of thunder to bring me out, combined with raised voices. In the cafe, I'm greeted by the sight of Fin pressed against the back wall, as far from the counter as he can get, while Nielsen presses himself into the other side of it, as if he's trying to get closer.

I realise no one's shouting, not really. Nielsen is just becoming insistent. Trying to convince Fin he can't shut the stable door and he obviously wants 'it'. He doesn't say what, but it doesn't take a genius.

The sky darkens further as if influenced by Fin's change in mood, a sudden summer storm rolling in from the ocean.

I don't like the way he's trying to make himself smaller. The way Nielsen is ignoring every major, flashing-light sign that Fin's horribly uncomfortable; only thinking of himself and his own desires. There's a couple of regulars glancing over to Fin, and I can tell they're quietly discussing whether to step in, so at least it isn't just me who can see it.

"What do you want from me?" Fin asks him in a whimper. Still, the vile man doesn't even show an inkling that he realises his actions are wrong.

I can see the way Fin is shaking. I want to go to him, give him care, but something stops me. Nielsen is my fault, so it's Nielsen I need to face off now.

I finally make myself visible, walking towards him. "I don't know what you think your rights are here, Nielsen, but I won't have you harassing my staff."

"Staff, eh? I knew he wasn't more than that. No surprise he was securing his job with something extra, though, not the likes of him."

"Wow, you took a leap after seeing us holding hands one time, huh?"

There's a bright crack of lightning, and Fin stands up, no longer cowering. "How dare you speak to Callum that way. Nothing we do is any of your business."

The words sound scripted and a bit shaky, but his eyes are furious, and Nielsen looks taken aback for a moment. He soon recovers though, sneering and leaning in again.

Thunder rolls, low and ominous. The storm's coming in faster and harder than I'd expected. It makes me want to push everybody out and lock the door to keep Fin safe. He glances at me, but I don't know what his facial expression is telling me. He looks distressed but resolute, and I'm terrified of overstepping.

"Oh, come on," Nielsen says. "Everyone knows what boys like you are looking for. I'm just saying I can offer you more than this guy. I mean, he doesn't look like much of a sugar daddy."

"Fin," I say softly as I step behind the counter, holding my arm out slightly in invitation.

He practically throws himself at me, his grateful body slamming into my side. He nuzzles into me for a moment before tipping his head to momentarily look at me with a sweet smile.

His arm is around my back, his thumb tucked into my waistband, but he leans forward toward the counter like he wants to make sure Nielsen hears this. "You are nothing. I am not looking for anyone like you, and you need to get out and not come back."

"Whatever," Nielsen responds, though the raised tendons in his neck and red face suggest that he cares a lot more than that. "You'll be looking for someone new soon enough. I mean, this guy'll be jobless soon enough, and that won't suit you."

"What?"

"I've bought this place. You'll be out, so enjoy it while you can."

He storms out then, making sure to slam the door hard. The couple from the other table say goodbye, the woman petting Fin's hand. He doesn't seem to want sympathy though, moving quickly to clean up once they're gone.

I phone my landlord.

"Yes, I received an offer today."

"Did you accept it though?" I ask, a little desperation bleeding into my voice.

"Not yet. I was planning on countering. Why?"

"I was thinking of making an offer myself," I admit, and somehow it feels right, so I wait nervously for his response.

"You'd stay there? Not get a big corporation in?"

"Yeah? It would still be me. I might go upstairs."

"You know I've lived in St Kilda almost my whole life?"

"Yeah," he'd mentioned it the first time we'd met, "me too."

"Put the offer in, lad. We'll see what we can do."

I go back to Fin feeling a lot more settled, but he's still tense.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise about Nielsen."

"Maybe, but my old life keeps messing things up for me here."

"You, ah, you think he knows you from before?"

"From the things he said, yeah, I do."

"Tell me what he meant when he said 'boys like you'."

He looks so young, frightened like this. "You won't like it. My ex-,"

"I promise I won't judge you, whatever it is."

"I had - well, 'have' I guess - three hundred thousand followers."

That's not what I was expecting. "Followers?"

"On social media. I did some modelling too, but it was mainly setting up videos of me doing sit-ups or pictures of drinking gross shakes and eating salads. It was fine. Boring, but fine. But I wanted more. Wanted to go back to uni and get my degree. Get a proper job."

"Why didn't you?"

"Ha! Yeah, Mark - that's my ex - wasn't impressed."

I have this image - this memory that isn't mine but could have been inserted into my experience - of what that looked like. What being a disappointment looks like. And with Fin in front of me, I see how completely unfair that is.

"So, you're... I mean, you did social media stuff."

He nods, but for some reason, maybe because I'm an idiot, I need to clarify. "So, you're not a prostitute?"

It's unfortunate he's just taken a sip of water, which gets sprayed across the counter.

"Shit," I mumble, but he's laughing hard enough that tears have formed.

"You thought-," he wheezes out, before taking deep breaths.

"Sorry." My face is hot, but his smile is wide.

"Why did you hire me?"

"Why wouldn't I? When you said you'd done things you were wanting to get away from, I just figured, that was the kind of thing you might not put on a resume, even though it's a totally valid job."

He looks at me like I might be insane, or at least confusing, but gets on with cleaning, and doesn't seem annoyed. It was probably the best way that could have gone.

We leave. He's agreed to come back to mine. But there's something darker running at me the longer I sneak surreptitious glances at him. I knew he was gorgeous, of course, and that has never left my mind, but until today the main focus has been how sweet he can be. The purity of him laughing. The clever ideas he helped us brainstorm.

But now there's this revelation that truly puts him out of my league. Hundreds of thousands of people are attracted to him. I might not follow social media, but I get how it works.

I can picture him at parties with other perfect people. Picture that laugh that I, I like so much - laughing for them. Fitting in with them. He's like Nyora that way. I could never. And even though I forced myself to have no expectations, there was always the unspoken undercurrent of hope. He came to me first. He made the first move. Although I wouldn't have admitted it, even to myself, deep down it might have meant something.

The sky is blacker than it has any right to be at this time. Intermittent lightning flashes are chased by deep, vibrating rolls of thunder, but the storm hasn't hit yet. During one particularly loud peal, Fin grabs my wrist, laughing in a way that makes my heart crack.

"Come on! Faster, old man, we don't want to get wet."

I try to laugh back - normally it wouldn't be hard - but the sound I make is hollow and he stops in his tracks.

"What?"

"You're right," I deflect, "we need to get back."

"No. Wait. Something's changed. Since you found out."

"Of course," I say, despite not wanting to admit these thoughts I have about him - these feelings. It's like the admission just can't be held back.

"What do you mean, 'of course'?" he asks, his voice unnaturally high as finally, the storm breaks with an explosion of thunder, and huge drops fall.

I throw my arm out in a frustrated move, hating myself when he flinches away. "It doesn't matter. There wasn't ever anything that I could have from you. Not more than I was getting. So, it doesn't matter."

The rain is drenching us already, running in cold rivulets as we stand in the middle of this thankfully empty street and argue about nothing.

"What did you want from me?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"Is that true?"

I can't tell, by the almost whispered question, whether it's relief or the opposite that taints the words.

"What I want I can't have."