"I'm on bar duty tonight," my mouth says, completely independent of my brain's protests. "I can give you a ride."
Fuck.
Devon's face lights up again. "Seriously? You're the best."
No, I'm an idiot. There's a crucial difference.
***
MY CAR HAS definitely shrunk too.
Everything is shrinking today. The shelter hallway. The car. The space between me and Devon, which is currently about six inches and feels like six millimeters.
He buckles his seatbelt completely relaxed, like being in enclosed spaces with people doesn't make him want to crawl out of his own skin.
Must be nice.
I start the engine, grip the steering wheel, and focus very intently on backing out of the parking space. This is fine. It's a fifteen-minute drive. I've driven for fifteen minutes before. I can do this.
"So," Devon says.
Here we go.
"That kiss was pretty hot, huh?"
I swerve. Not a lot. Just enough that the car lurches slightly to the right and I have to overcorrect, and the car behind me lays on the horn.
"Sorry!" I yell at the rearview mirror.
Devon's grinning. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't. I'm fine. Totally fine."
"Your knuckles are white."
I look down at my hands, which are currently strangling the steering wheel. I force myself to loosen my grip. "Just focusing on the road."
"Right. The road. Very important."
We drive in silence for maybe thirty seconds before Devon speaks again. "I'm just saying, for a straight guy, you kiss like you've had practice."
"I don't—"
"A lot of practice. With guys specifically."
Red light. Thank Christ. I hit the breaks and take a breath.
Devon's examining his nails, not a care in the world. "Not complaining. Just observing. You've got this wholerepressed yearningthing going on. It's kind of hot."
"I'm not repressed."
"Sure, Jan."
The light turns green. I drive. Focus on driving. Ignore Devon. Impossible task, but I'm trying.
"So anyway," he continues, casual as fuck, "I jerked off thinking about it."
I nearly drive into oncoming traffic.
