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Ted Spankoffski was a sleazeball.
Paul had decided that within the first week of working at CCRP, when Ted had leaned over the cubicle wall, winked at him, and asked if he “had any hot cousins.” It had been said with a grin, like it was the most natural question in the world, and when Paul had just stared at him, Ted had shrugged and sauntered off, whistling something vaguely off-key.
And nothing in the months since had done anything to change his mind. If anything, Ted seemed determined to prove him right at every possible opportunity.
He flirted with anything that vaguely resembled a woman (and the occasional man). He leaned on cubicle walls, sat on desks that weren’t his, invaded personal space like it was a hobby. He bragged loudly about “conquests” in the break room like he was narrating a sports highlight reel. He was allergic to commitment, proudly so and had made it very clear that he considered monogamy a “scam invented by greeting card companies." He was abrasive, pushy, and sometimes downright rude. He made crude jokes in meetings, and treated HR policies like vague suggestions rather than rules.
He was the kind of guy HR should have had a file on already, and the only reason Paul suspected they didn’t was that Ted somehow managed to skate just under the threshold of formal complaints.
But he was, in Paul’s professional opinion, a walking future sexual harassment lawsuit.
And the strangest part was—Ted didn’t even pretend otherwise. He wore the label like a badge of honour. If someone called him a creep, he’d grin and say, “Yeah, but I’m a fun creep,” like that made it better.
Paul had tried, once, to do something about it.
It had been after one particularly uncomfortable afternoon where Ted had spent twenty minutes leaning over Charlotte’s chair, murmuring things in her ear that made her blush and avert her gaze to stare at her keyboard, calling her “Char” and “sweetheart” and “gorgeous” in a tone that had made Paul’s skin crawl.
Paul had watched from his own desk, jaw clenched, fingers hovering over his mouse, pretending to focus on spreadsheets while his stomach twisted.
When Ted had finally left to go “check on some numbers” (which Paul suspected meant “go hit on the receptionist”), Paul had approached Charlotte’s cubicle.
“Hey,” he’d said, trying to sound casual. “You, uh… okay?”
Charlotte had looked up, startled, then smiled that soft, apologetic smile she always wore when someone asked how she was doing. “Yeah. Why?”
“I just…” He’d gestured vaguely in the direction Ted had gone. “If he’s making you uncomfortable, you know you can report him to HR, right? Or at least tell him to back off.”
She’d blushed, eyes dropping to her hands. “Oh. No, it’s… it’s fine.”
“Charlotte,” Paul had pressed gently, “he’s… a lot.”
“I know,” she’d said, and then, quieter, “I kind of like the attention.”
That had shut him up.
Because he knew—everyone knew, if they listened hard enough—that Charlotte’s marriage to Sam was hanging by threads. He’d overheard more than one phone call where Sam’s voice on the other end was sharp, dismissive, or outright cruel. Calls that ended with Charlotte staring at her phone like it had betrayed her, blinking back tears, or forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. There had been a day when Charlotte had slipped into the hallway to take a call, and Paul, passing by, had caught just enough to hear Sam say, “You’re overreacting, like always,” followed by the click of a hang-up.
So if Ted, sleazeball that he was, could put a genuine smile on her face, could make her laugh, could make her feel wanted… Paul wasn’t sure he had the right to take that away from her. Not when the alternative was going home to someone who made her feel small.
He still didn’t like it. But he let it be.
Which is why, on this particular Tuesday, when Paul glanced into Ted’s office and saw him slumped at his desk, he almost kept walking.
Almost.
Ted looked… bad. Not just “hungover” bad, which Paul had seen before, but something else. His hair was more of a disaster than usual, his shirt wrinkled, and there were dark circles under his eyes that even the fluorescent office lighting couldn’t wash out. He was staring at his computer screen as if it had personally offended him.
Ted usually moved like he was permanently half a step away from a dance move. He swaggered, he sauntered, he leaned. Today, he just… sat. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes shadowed, and there was a faint grayness to his skin that made him look like he hadn’t slept in days.
Paul paused with his hand halfway to the breakroom door, watching through the glass.
Ted didn’t notice him. He didn’t notice much of anything, apparently. His fingers tapped at the keyboard in short, frustrated bursts, then stopped. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes like he was trying to push back a headache from the inside.
Paul frowned.
He could have ignored it. That would have been the easy thing to do. Ted was an asshole; Ted being miserable was not exactly a tragedy in Paul’s book. But something about the way he sat there—deflated, almost—made Paul’s chest tighten.
He thought about Charlotte, about the way she’d smiled when Ted brought her coffee last week, about the way Ted had winked and said, “Anything for my favourite analyst,” and how Charlotte had glowed for the rest of the morning.
He thought about the way Ted had, once, without fanfare, stayed late to help Paul with a report that had gone sideways. He’d complained the whole time, but he’d stayed. And when Paul had thanked him, Ted had just shrugged and said, “Don’t mention it, man. You’d do the same.”
Paul wasn’t sure that was true. But he remembered it.
Paul stepped back to the doorway of Ted’s office, hand still on the strap of his messenger bag, and knocked lightly on the glass. “Uh. Morning.”
Ted didn’t look up right away. When he did, it was slow, like his neck hurt. “Hey, Paulie.”
Paul blinked. Ted only called him “Paulie” when he was in a good mood—or feeling extra licentious, and intending to make Paul’s day a nightmare. Today, it sounded like the word was made of sand.
Ted forced a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, voice hoarse but that familiar swagger returning slightly. “What’s up, my dude?”
Paul leaned against the frame of the door. “You look like death warmed over.”
“Wow,” Ted huffed, hand over his heart. “Flattery. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”
“I’m serious. You, uh… you okay?” Paul asked, because he was not heartless, and because something about the way Ted’s shoulders were hunched made him feel a flicker of concern he didn’t quite know what to do with.
Ted snorted. “Define ‘okay.’”
“Not dead?” Paul offered.
“Barely,” Ted muttered, rubbing at his eyes. He hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Paul to see something flicker behind his eyes—then shrugged. “I’m fine. Just… long week.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Paul pointed out.
“Yeah,” Ted said, “and it’s already been a long week.”
Paul studied him. The usual instinct—to roll his eyes, to make a sarcastic comment and walk away—nudged at him.
Instead, Paul hesitated. He had been on his way out, actually—Beanie’s run, his mid-morning ritual. A coffee for himself, something sweet for Charlotte if she was having a rough day, and maybe a muffin for whoever looked the most like they were about to cry over a spreadsheet. It was his way of keeping the office from collapsing under the weight of its own monotony.
He hadn’t planned on inviting Ted. He never invited Ted. Ted usually just showed up at Beanie’s on his own, hitting on the baristas and loudly ordering something with “extra foam, baby.”
But today… Ted looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by a kind of brittle tension that made Paul’s chest tighten.
“You want to come to Beanie’s?” Paul heard himself say. “I’m heading over. Could use the company.”
The words surprised him as much as they seemed to surprise Ted.
Ted’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re inviting me on a Beanie’s run?”
“Don’t make it weird,” Paul said quickly. “I’m going anyway. Figured you could use the caffeine.”
Ted blinked at him, like he was trying to decide if this was a joke. His mouth quirked, but it didn’t quite become a smile. “Guess I must look really pathetic.”
“You look like you went 10 rounds with a spreadsheet,” Paul deadpanned. “And the spreadsheet won.”
That got a huff of laughter out of Ted, quiet but real. “All right, Paulie. Beanie’s run. Let me grab my wallet.”
He pushed himself up out of his chair with a groan, stretching his arms over his head until his back cracked. “God, I’m getting old.”
“You’re thirty-two,” Paul noted absently.
“Exactly,” Ted replied. “Ancient.”
They walked out into the main office together. As they passed Charlotte’s desk, Ted slowed. “Hey, uh—hold up a sec.”
Paul watched as Ted headed toward Charlotte’s desk. She was typing something, brow furrowed, a half-empty mug of coffee sitting beside her keyboard. Ted leaned on the edge of her desk, but not as close as usual.
“Hey, Char,” he said, voice softer than his usual drawl. “Beanie’s run. You want anything?”
Charlotte looked up, surprised. “Oh! Um… could you maybe get me a vanilla latte? Medium?”
“You got it.” Ted grinned, pointing at her like he was making a solemn vow. “One medium vanilla latte for the lovely Charlotte. I will return victorious.”
She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks, Ted. Oh, with—”
“A drizzle of chocolate syrup on top? I got it, Char,” Ted interrupted, and for a moment, his smile softened. It was still Ted—still cocky, still bright—but there was something gentler underneath it. Something almost… earnest.
Paul watched that, feeling something shift in his perception.
Ted, who loudly proclaimed he didn’t do “strings” or “attachments,” had just remembered Charlotte’s drink order and offered to bring it back without being asked. It was… oddly considerate.
Huh.
Ted tapped the edge of Charlotte’s desk once before standing and returning to Paul’s side. “All right. Let’s go before I change my mind and crawl under my desk instead,” Ted grumbled, any softness from before replaced by exhaustion that weighed down heavily on Ted’s shoulders.
They headed out of the building and into the crisp air. The walk to Beanie’s wasn’t long—just a block down, past the pharmacy and the dry cleaner and the little park with the perpetually broken fountain. Ted shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched against the breeze.
“So,” Paul hummed, trying to make conversation as they walked. “Long week, huh?”
Ted snorted. “You have no idea.”
“Try me.”
Ted glanced at him, then looked away. “Just… stuff. Work. Life. You know.”
“That’s vague,” Paul said.
“Yeah,” Ted replied. “On purpose.”
Paul considered pushing, but something about the tightness in Ted’s jaw made him back off. They walked in silence for a minute, the sound of traffic and distant chatter filling the space between them.
Ted kept checking his phone like he was waiting for a message that wasn’t coming.
Paul filed that away with the other tidbits of Ted he had already observed today.
Beanie’s was busy when they arrived. The bell over the door chimed as they stepped inside, and the smell of coffee and baked goods wrapped around them like a warm blanket. People sat at small tables, hunched over laptops or chatting in low voices. The line stretched almost to the door.
“Great,” Ted muttered. “Everyone in Hatchetfield decided they needed coffee at the same time.”
Paul stepped into line, Ted behind him. He glanced at the menu board, mentally calculating how much caffeine he could consume before his hands started shaking.
“So,” he tried again, “you and Charlotte seem… close.”
Ted perked up a little at that, smirking. “Jealous?”
“No,” Paul said quickly. “Just… curious.”
Ted shrugged. “She’s cute. She laughs at my jokes. Her husband’s a dick.”
Paul blinked. “You know about Sam?”
“Everyone knows about Sam,” Ted scoffed. “Guy calls her at work just to yell at her. I’ve heard him. Makes my skin crawl.”
Paul hadn’t expected that. “You… don’t like him?”
“Why would I?” Ted frowned. “He treats her like crap. She deserves better.”
Paul opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a sudden shout cut through the hum of conversation.
“Shit!”
Heads turned. Paul’s did too.
Near the condiment station, a teenage boy had leapt to his feet, knocking his chair back with a screech. A paper cup lay on its side on the table, its contents spilled across the surface and onto the boy’s shirt and pants. He was frantically swiping at the hot liquid, face twisted in discomfort.
Paul winced in sympathy. He’d spilled coffee on himself enough times to know how much that hurt.
Beside him, Ted went very still.
“Petey?” he breathed.
Paul turned to look at him, but Ted was already moving. No, he wasn’t just moving—he was bolting.
He grabbed a handful of napkins from the counter as he passed, weaving through the tables with surprising speed.
“Petey! What the hell, man? You okay?” he called, voice sharp with concern and alarm, cutting through the cafe noise like a siren.
The boy looked up, startled. “Teddy? Jesus, man! You scared me! What are you doing here?”
“Beanie’s run,” Ted said, already pressing napkins into the boy’s hands, helping him blot at the liquid. “Did you burn yourself?”
“I’m fine!” the kid protested, cheeks flushing. “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s not that hot. It was sitting for a bit.”
Paul approached more slowly, watching.
Up close, the resemblance was impossible to miss. The boy was like a younger, softer version of Ted—same nose, same jawline, same dark hair, though his was neatly combed instead of artfully messy. He wore glasses, suspenders, and a bowtie, of all things. It was like someone had taken Ted and run him through a “wholesome” filter.
“You sure?” Ted asked, eyes scanning the boy’s arms, his chest, looking for any sign of redness. “You gotta be careful, man. You can get, like, second-degree burns from this stuff.”
“I know,” the boy said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a kid.”
“You’re sixteen,” Ted said. “That’s basically still a kid.”
“Seventeen,” the boy corrected. “In three months.”
“Exactly. Still a kid.”
The boy huffed, but there was affection in it. “I can clean up myself, Teddy. You don’t have to fuss.”
“Yeah, I do,” Ted said, and there was no joke in his voice now. Just worry. “You spill hot chocolate on yourself, I fuss. That’s my job.”
Paul stood a few feet away, feeling like he’d stumbled into a different universe.
He’d never seen Ted like this. The rough edges were gone—the swagger, the smirk, the lazy arrogance. In their place was something softer, more open. His posture was relaxed but attentive, his eyes bright with concern. His hands moved gently, careful not to press too hard on the boy’s skin. Ted—sleazy, abrasive, commitment-phobic Ted—was standing in the middle of Beanie’s, looking genuinely worried about a teenage boy in a bowtie.
“Uh…” Paul cleared his throat. “Everything okay?”
Ted glanced back at him, as if just remembering he existed. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good. Petey just tried to scald himself, that’s all.”
“I did not,” the boy retorted, exasperated. He looked at Paul, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Sorry. Did we, um… interrupt your line or something?”
“No, it’s fine,” Paul said quickly. “I’m Paul. I work with Ted.”
“Oh!” the boy said, brightening. “Hi. I’m Peter. Ted’s little brother.”
Little brother…?
Paul blinked.
He hadn’t known Ted had a little brother. He hadn’t known Ted had any family, really. Ted never talked about them. His stories were always about parties, hookups, wild nights. Never about home.
“You… have a little brother? A family?”
Ted raised an eyebrow. “What, you thought I just spawned fully formed in a polyester shirt and a bad attitude?”
“Yes?” Paul said before he could stop himself.
Peter laughed, a bright, easy sound. “He kind of did. At least that’s how it felt when he started working at CCRP. He came home and wouldn’t shut up about ‘corporate synergy’ for a week.”
“Hey,” Ted protested, but there was no real heat in it. “Corporate synergy is very important. It’s how we justify meetings that could’ve been emails.”
Paul smiled, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease. “Nice to meet you, Peter.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Peter said, smiling. It was a good smile—earnest, a little shy. “Sorry for the… dramatic entrance.”
“Trust me,” Paul said. “You’re not even in the top ten most dramatic things I’ve seen in this place.”
Ted finally seemed satisfied that Peter wasn’t going to suffer third-degree burns from a hot chocolate. He stepped back, but his eyes lingered on Peter, scanning him like he was checking for invisible injuries.
“You sure you’re good?” Ted asked again.
“Yes,” Peter said, exasperated but fond. “I’m good. I’ve survived worse than hot coffee.”
Ted’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second at that, something dark flickering behind his eyes. It was gone almost immediately, replaced by a crooked smile.
Paul filed that reaction away in the back of his mind. His folder on Ted was very quickly filling up.
“So what are you doing here?” Ted asked, nudging Peter lightly with his elbow. “You skipping school to hang out at Beanie’s now? That what we’re doing?”
Peter snorted. “It’s lunch break, and I have a free period after, so I came here to work on my physics homework. I’m not a delinquent.”
“Yet,” Ted countered.
“Never,” Peter snarked back. “I’m going to be a respectable adult.”
“Like me,” Ted said, gesturing to himself.
Peter looked at him over the top of his glasses. “You’re my cautionary tale.”
Paul choked on a laugh. Ted shot him a mock glare.
“Okay, wow,” Ted said. “I invite you into my life, and you both roast me. This is great. I love this.”
“You love me,” Peter said, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
Ted’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth turning up in a way Paul had never seen before. It was… gentle. Open. There was no bravado in it, no swagger. Just affection.
“Yeah,” Ted said quietly. “I do. You got enough money for another hot chocolate?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
Ted’s expression flickered for a moment at that word—something sharp, something pained—but it passed quickly. “Good. Don’t let them overcharge you. If they try, tell them your big brother will fight them.”
“You’re not going to fight the barista,” Peter gasped.
“Watch me,” Ted replied.
Paul watched them banter, feeling oddly like he was intruding on something private. The way Ted looked at Peter—eyes soft, mouth curved in a genuine smile—was… different. It was the kind of look Paul associated with parents watching their kids.
“Hey,” Peter said suddenly, looking at Paul. “Do you work in the same department as Ted?”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “We’re both in sales.”
“Is he… good at his job?” Peter asked, curiosity shining in his eyes.
Ted groaned. “Don’t ask him that.”
Paul considered his answer. “He’s… persistent,” he said finally. “Clients either love him or… tolerate him.”
“Wow,” Ted said. “Glowing review.”
Peter laughed. “That sounds about right.”
They talked for a few more minutes—about school, about CCRP, about the new Beanie’s seasonal flavours. Peter mentioned a physics project he was working on, and Ted listened with surprising attentiveness, asking questions that were clumsy but sincere.
Eventually, Peter glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. “I should get back. I’ve got English next.”
“Fun,” Ted said. “Go learn about metaphors or whatever.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “We’re doing Shakespeare.”
“Even worse,” Ted grumbled. “You need me to pick you up after school?”
“No, I’m good.” Peter shook his head. “I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
“You sure?” Ted asked, that worry creeping back into his voice.
“I’m sure,” Peter said. “I’ll text you when I’m home, okay?”
“Okay.” Ted reached out and squeezed Peter’s shoulder, just for a second. “Be careful. Text me if you need anything, okay? I’ll be home by six.”
“I will,” Peter said. He hesitated, then added, “Thanks for… you know. Being here.”
Ted’s smile softened again. “Always, Petey.”
Peter grabbed his bag, adjusted his bowtie, and headed for the door. As he passed Paul, he gave him a small wave. “Nice meeting you, Paul!”
“You too,” Paul said.
“See you at home, Teddy!” The bell chimed as Peter left, and the noise of the café seemed to swell back to its usual level.
For a moment, Ted just stood there, staring at the door Peter had disappeared through. His expression was unreadable—some mix of pride, worry, and something heavier.
Then he shook himself and turned back to Paul. When he did, his face shifted—like a mask sliding back into place. The softness drained, replaced by the familiar smirk, the familiar slouch.
“Come on, Paulie,” he said, clapping Paul on the shoulder. “Let’s get that coffee before I collapse.”
They rejoined the line. Paul felt like he had just watched a magic trick, except instead of a rabbit out of a hat, it was a whole human being out of Ted Spankoffski.
The line had moved up a bit while they’d been distracted. Paul stepped forward, still processing what he’d just seen.
“You never told me you had a little brother,” he said.
Ted shrugged. “You never asked.”
“That’s not how normal conversation works,” Paul said. “Most people mention their family at some point.”
“Yeah, well,” Ted replied, “my family’s not exactly… fun dinner party conversation.”
Paul glanced at him. “Peter seems great.”
“He is,” Ted said, and there was no hesitation in his voice. “Kid’s a genius. Straight A’s, honours classes, all that crap. He’s gonna get out of Hatchetfield and do something actually important.”
“You don’t think what you do is important?” Paul asked.
Ted snorted. “I sell crap to people who don’t need it. Peter’s gonna, like, invent a new kind of rocket or something.”
Paul smiled faintly. “He really looks up to you.”
Ted’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I’m trying not to screw that up.”
They shuffled forward in line. The barista called out the next order, and someone grabbed their drink from the counter.
“How long has he been living with you?” Paul asked.
Ted’s shoulders tensed. “Few years.”
“Since…?” Paul trailed off, unsure how far he was allowed to pry.
“Since our parents decided they’d rather be… elsewhere,” Ted said, voice flat.
Paul frowned. “Elsewhere?”
Ted’s mouth twisted. “Indisposed.”
“That’s… vague,” Paul said again.
“On purpose,” Ted repeated, more sharply this time.
Paul watched him. The muscle in Ted’s jaw ticked, his fingers flexing at his sides. Whatever “indisposed” meant, it clearly wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. It was a vague word, but it was loaded. Paul heard everything that wasn’t being said—sickness, absence, neglect, something worse. He didn’t know which it was, but he knew it wasn't good.
He thought about Peter calling Ted “Dad” as a joke, and the way Ted’s expression had flickered. He thought about the way Ted had rushed to Peter’s side, the way he’d fussed over him, the way he’d insisted on being texted when Peter got home.
He thought about Ted staying late to help with that report, about Ted bringing Charlotte coffee, about Ted calling Sam a dick.
He thought about the version of Ted he’d built in his head—sleazeball, creep, lawsuit waiting to happen—and felt something shift.
“You really care about him,” Paul stated, because it was obvious, and because he felt like it should be acknowledged.
Ted’s eyes flicked to him, sharp. For a second, Paul thought he was going to deflect, make a joke, say something crude to change the subject.
Instead, Ted exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “I do.”
Paul nodded. “He’s lucky to have you.”
Ted barked out a laugh, but it was humourless. “You’re the first person to ever say that.”
“I mean it,” Paul insisted. “You… you were really worried about him. I’ve never seen you move that fast unless someone said there were free donuts in the break room.”
Ted huffed. “Yeah, well. He’s… he’s my kid, you know?”
Paul blinked. “Your kid?”
“Not literally,” Ted said quickly. “I mean, he’s my brother. But… I’ve been the one taking care of him. Making sure he has a place to sleep, food, all his medications, someone to yell at him when he forgets his homework. Someone to… I don’t know. Tell him he’s okay.”
“Because your parents are… indisposed.” Paul offered carefully.
“Yeah.” Ted’s jaw ticked again. “They weren’t exactly winning any ‘Parent of the Year’ awards before, either.”
Paul didn’t push. He didn’t need the details to understand the shape of it.
“You’re doing a good thing,” Paul said, voice gentle. “Taking care of him.”
Ted shrugged, but his eyes were suddenly very interested in the floor. “Someone had to.”
“Not everyone would.”
Ted was silent for a moment. “He didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Any of what?” Paul asked gently.
Ted’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Our parents… they’re not… good at being parents. They’re good at drinking. They’re good at yelling. They’re good at disappearing for days at a time. They’re not good at… showing up.”
Paul’s chest tightened. “So you did.”
Ted shrugged, but the motion was stiff. “Someone had to. He was twelve. I had a crappy apartment and a job that barely paid enough for rent and instant noodles. But it was better than… there. Home wasn’t safe for him.”
Paul’s stomach twisted. “Safe how?”
Ted glanced at him, eyes hard. “You ever watch someone you care about get torn down for just… existing? For saying, ‘Hey, this is who I am,’ and having people tell them they’re wrong? That they’re confused, or broken, or… whatever?”
Paul swallowed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen that.”
“So has Peter. Too much.”
“That’s… a lot.”
Ted stepped forward as the line moved again, eyes fixed on the menu board.
“I’m not…” he continued, voice quieter now. “I’m not a good guy, Paul. I know that. I drink too much, I sleep around, I say shit I shouldn’t. I’m not… stable. But I can at least make sure Peter has a bed and food and someone who gives a damn whether he burns himself with hot chocolate.”
Paul didn’t know what to say to that.
He’d never heard Ted talk like this. There was no bravado, no jokes, no deflection. Just raw honesty, laid bare between them in the middle of a crowded café.
“You’re doing more than a lot of people would,” Paul said finally.
Ted snorted. “Low bar.”
“Still,” Paul said. “It matters.”
Ted didn’t respond, but his shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction.
They reached the front of the line. Paul ordered his usual. Ted ordered Charlotte’s vanilla latte, something with too many shots of espresso, and a muffin that looked like it had more sugar than flour.
Before Ted could even reach for his wallet, Paul had already fished his card from his pocket and tapped it to the machine without pause. Ted raised an eyebrow, but Paul pointedly ignored his gaze.
What? It was just paying for coffee. It wasn't as if he cared for Ted. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the newfound soft side to Ted Spankoffski that he had discovered.
As they waited for their drinks, Paul glanced at Ted again.
“You know,” he said, “you’re… different with him.”
Ted raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“Less of an asshole,” Paul stated.
Ted barked out a laugh. “Wow. Thanks, man. Really feeling the love.”
“I mean it,” Paul said. “You’re… softer. You look at him like…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Like he’s the best thing that ever happened to you,” he finished.
Ted’s smile faltered. For a moment, his eyes were unguarded, vulnerable.
“He is,” he said simply.
The barista called their names, and the moment passed. Ted grabbed his drink and muffin, Paul grabbed his coffee and Charlotte’s latte, and they headed back out into the street.
They started walking back to CCRP, drinks in hand. The air outside was cooler than the café, the sky a flat gray that promised rain later.
“He told them,” Ted said suddenly as they walked, voice low. “Told them who he is. They didn’t listen. Or they listened and decided they didn’t like the answer.”
Paul’s heart ached. “So he came to you.”
Ted nodded. “He showed up at my door with a backpack and a look on his face like he was waiting for me to slam it in his face.”
“What did you do?” Paul asked, even though he could guess.
Ted snorted. “I let him in. Gave him the good pillow. Told him he could stay as long as he wanted. Told him… I believed him.”
Paul’s throat felt tight. “That’s… that’s huge, Ted.”
Ted shrugged, but there was a tremor in it. “Didn’t feel huge. Felt… obvious. He’s my brother. He says, ‘This is who I am,’ I say, ‘Okay.’ That’s the job.”
“Not everyone sees it that way,” Paul said.
“Yeah, well…” Ted grinned. “Not everyone’s me.”
There was a flash of pride in his voice, but it wasn’t the usual kind. It wasn’t about his “conquests” or his ability to charm his way out of trouble. It was about something quieter, sturdier.
“You know,” Paul said, after a few steps. “I always thought you were… well. A sleazeball.”
Ted laughed, a real laugh this time. “You’re not wrong.”
“I mean,” Paul amended, “you kind of are. You flirt with everyone, you brag about hookups, you say you don’t believe in commitment. You’re… you.”
“Wow,” Ted chuckled. “You really know how to flatter a guy.”
“But,” Paul continued, “I didn’t know you had a little brother. I didn’t know you were… taking care of him. I didn’t know you were the person he runs to when he gets burned by hot chocolate and… other things.”
Ted was quiet for a moment. “Well. I don’t exactly lead with that at the bar.”
“Maybe you should,” Paul said.
Ted snorted. “Yeah, that’ll go over great. ‘Hey, baby, I’m emotionally responsible for my teenage brother. Wanna see my tax returns?’”
Paul laughed, the sound bright and free. “Okay, maybe not at the bar. But… I think it says something about you.”
“Like what?” Ted asked, genuinely curious.
“Like you’re not just… a horny bastard,” Paul offered. “You’re also the guy who makes sure his brother has a home where he’s believed. Where he’s safe.”
Ted’s steps faltered for half a second. “You really think that?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Ted was quiet all the way back to CCRP.
Paul kept glancing at Ted out of the corner of his eye, seeing him in layers now. The sleazeball was still there—the guy who flirted with anything that moved, who bragged about hookups, who made HR nervous. But underneath that, there was someone else. Someone who’d taken in his little brother when their parents had failed them. Someone who worried about burns and physics homework and text messages confirming safe arrivals.
Someone who cared.
When they reached the office, Ted held the door open for Paul with a mock bow. “After you, my good sir.”
“Wow,” Paul sarcastically quipped. “Chivalry. Didn’t know you had that in you.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Ted said. “It’ll ruin my reputation.”
They stepped inside. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the hum of computers and phones filling the air.
Ted headed straight for Charlotte’s desk, holding out the latte like a prize.
“Medium vanilla latte for Miss Charlotte,” he announced. “As requested.”
Charlotte looked up, eyes lighting up. “Oh! Thank you, Ted!”
“Anytime,” he said, and there it was again—that softened smile, that hint of something warmer beneath the surface. “Gotta keep you caffeinated. Can’t have you falling asleep on the job.”
She laughed, taking the cup. “You’re sweet.”
“Don’t spread that around.” Ted wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ve got a brand to maintain.”
Paul watched the exchange, watched the way Ted’s gaze lingered on Charlotte for just a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t the usual predatory look he’d seen before. It was… gentler. Admiring, almost. Like he was seeing her, not just her body.
It was subtle. If Paul hadn’t just watched Ted with Peter, he might have missed it.
He thought of Ted’s bragging, his crude jokes, his loud declarations that he didn’t do “strings.” He thought of the way Ted had rushed to Peter’s side, napkins in hand, panic in his voice. He thought of the way Ted had said, “He’s my kid,” and the way his jaw had tightened when he talked about their parents. He thought of the way Ted had remembered Charlotte’s drink order, the way he’d said she deserved something good.
Huh.
It seemed that Ted wasn’t quite the asshole he claimed to be.
Paul headed back to his own desk, sat down, and stared at his computer screen without really seeing it.
Ted Spankoffski was a sleazeball. That was still true. He was abrasive, pushy, rude. He flirted too much, bragged too loudly, cared too little about boundaries.
But now, Paul knew something else was true too.
Ted Spankoffski was also a guy who’d stepped up when no one else did. A guy who’d taken in his little brother, who worried about him, who wanted him to have a better life. A guy who looked at that kid like he was the best thing in the world.
And when Ted looked at Charlotte—when he thought no one was really paying attention—Paul could see a flicker of that same expression. Less pronounced, more guarded, but there.
Adoration, tucked away behind jokes and sleaze and bravado.
Later that afternoon, Paul passed Ted’s office and paused. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, Ted was on the phone, voice low.
“Yeah, Petey,” he was saying. “I’m just packing up now. Hell yeah, I’ll grab some pizza on my way home. Yeah, yeah, you bet your ass we're celebrating that! You worked so hard, and you did great. I’m proud of you.”
Paul smiled, just a little, and kept walking.
Ted Spankoffski was a sleazeball.
But he was also a brother, a makeshift parent, a safe harbour for a kid who needed one. He was a man who didn’t like commitment, who didn’t like being vulnerable—but who, when it counted, showed up with napkins and a steady hand and a promise that he believed you.
Ted looked up, caught Paul’s eye through the glass, and wiggled his eyebrows.
“Don’t get too attached, Paulie,” he called, grinning. “You buy a guy coffee, he might start thinking you like him.”
Paul rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re not my type.”
“But everyone’s my type,” Ted shot back.
Paul shook his head, turning to leave the office for the night. “Goodnight… Teddy.”
Ted laughed, the sound echoing behind Paul. “‘Night, Paulie.”