I open my mouth, but nothing intelligent falls out. George stirs beside me—barely anything, just a slight adjustment of his shoulders and a slow turn of his head.
But the change in energy is immediate. The air around him thickens with unmistakable possession. His hand rests casually on the bar, but the look he burns into the guy makes it crystal clear that, whatever this man might be hoping, he and I are not compatible in any way.
The man straightens up fast, like some ancient survival instinct just screamed at him that he’d wandered too close to another man’s territory. And that the short-circuiting cutie he’s talking to is very much claimed by the big, silent one.
His smile turns polite and still friendly as he backs away smoothly.
“Pleasure,” he mumbles, already retreating with impressive grace.
I slowly turn toward George.
“Did you just ward off my potential new friend with sheer eye contact and aura?”
George grunts into his whiskey.
“You looked at him like you were deciding where to bury the body.” I point accusingly. “That man wanted me.”
“That man wanted free drinks.”
“He can want two things.” I insist.
And then, because apparently the universe enjoys balance and dramatic irony, two gorgeous little twinks approach George about ten minutes later.
They’re not subtle about it either.
The bolder one actually reaches out and touches George’s forearm, his fingers lingering. “God, your shoulders are insane,” he exclaims, voice bright.
George handles it with his usual polite but slightly awkward grace. He gives one-line, to-the-point answers the way he always does when people openly flirt with him and can’t escape into an engine bay somewhere. He’s not rude, just…George. A little out of his element in the face of overt admiration.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting there and abruptly become emotionally involved, against my will.
The smaller one laughs at something George says, tilting his head with clear interest.
I narrow my gaze immediately.
George notices, of course. Slowly, he turns his head and looks over at me. And the bastard smirks, as if saying he knows exactly what I’m doing.
“You done glaring?” he asks, clearly amused, after the two men finally drift away. “You should see yourself looking primed for a fight.”
“You seem overwhelmed. You have the social instincts of a raccoon trapped in a Home Depot bucket.”
George pauses, then he laughs. I feel weirdly victorious about it.
The night settles around us after that. Music pulses warmly through the room. Glasses clink. Men dance beneath amber light. Someone sings badly near the back booths while his entire friend group boos him with loud affection.
And sitting there half-drunk beside George, I realize something important.
This place feels both foreign and familiar at the same time.
That’s the good part. It feels like finding a community in your own city you somehow never knew existed. Same world, same map, but different gravity.
I watch two older men slow dancing near the edge of the floor, smiling at each other like they’ve been doing this for a lifetime. Nobody stares. Nobody cares. They just exist—easy, open, free.
And maybe I’m still standing slightly outside all of it, not fully sure where I fit yet, but for the first time in a while, that uncertainty doesn’t feel frightening.
It feels exciting.
Beside me, George nudges my shoulder lightly with his own.
