He starts rambling while we eat, talking about the pork dish he wants to try making for me back in San Diego. How Christian showed him a few techniques, how he burned the first batch but the second one turned out decent. He’s trying to play it cool, but his ears stay pink and he keeps glancing at me like he’s waiting for me to laugh at him.
I don’t laugh. I just eat and listen, letting the warmth settle deep in my chest. This man flew across the country, buried himself in his mom’s care and work for a month, and still found time to learn how to cook because he wanted to do something nice for me.
I reach over and squeeze his knee under the tray. “Thanks, Lance.”
He shrugs, but the smile stays. “I’ll do more…if that’s okay with you.”
“Can’t let you outdo me.”
He scoffs at me, “I will never outdo a George Torres-Macklin when it comes to cooking. I’m not that ambitious.”
We finish breakfast in comfortable silence, knees bumping under the tray. For a little while, everything feels right that I didn’t know I was missing this badly.
Lance takes me fucking shopping.
We’re supposed to head straight to Hearthside, but he makes the turn without asking and parks in front of a row of stores that cater to men who probably own multiple estates. The Seattle streets here are wide and clean, sidewalks swept spotless, big windows with subtle gold lettering displaying clothes that probably cost more than my truck. People move like money is just background noise.
I don’t argue. Arguing with Lance when he’s decided something takes more energy than it’s worth.
His car looks like it doesn’t belong here at all. A secondhand 2012 Toyota Camry, dark gray, and worn. He bought it online from some private seller when he started doing his own errands around Seattle. When he’s with his mom, they use the family Mercedes, a sleek black S-Class that belongs in hotel drop-offs and high-end hospital entrances.
He kills the engine and gets out like it doesn’t matter what the hell he drives or who sees him in this street.
The shop is vast and quiet. Cream walls, soft recessed lights, racks of coats and clothes spaced so far apart you could swing a cat between them without touching anything. A glass case near the register holds watches and cufflinks glowing under clean white light. In the back corner, there’s a raised platform with three mirrors angled around it for tailoring. Some low instrumental music drifts from hidden speakers, the sort of thing that’s supposed to sound classy. The whole place smells like cedar and new leather—expensive, untouched clothes that have never seen a day of real work in their lives.
Lance moves through the racks comfortably. He’s not being flashy about it—he’s just familiar with the place. He pulls a few out, holds them up, then glances at me.
“What do you think of this one?” He’s holding up a dark wool jacket, heavy and well-made. “Looks like it’d actually keep you warm up here.”
I look at the price tag. “Lance, fuck—I don’t think I can afford this.”
“Hey, don’t fucking think about that,” he places it against my chest for a second, checking the fit with a small, thoughtful frown. “You’re gonna freeze your ass off in that flannel when the rain really hits, and I’d rather not have you turning into a human icicle on my watch. Let me do this.”
I grunt. “Don’t need fancy shit.”
“It’s not fancy. It’s practical.” He smiles humbly, just trying to be useful. “You do enough for everyone else. Let me do this one little thing.”
He also picks out a couple of soft merino wool shirts in dark colors. “We’ll throw these in too, okay?”
I accept my fate.
He puts them on the counter along with other items he finds along the way.
The woman behind the counter rings the coat up without blinking at the price. Lance pays silently, then politely nods at the coat. “Can you take the tags off, please?”
She slides the scissors through the plastic loop and hands the coat back to him. Lance takes it, turns to me, and holds it open.
“Come on,” he says. “Arms in.”
I stare at him for a second, then step forward. Because I’m taller, Lance has to stand on his toes to drape the heavy wool over my shoulders. His hands smooth it down my arms, adjusting the collar with careful fingers. The coat settles warm around me, still carrying that new-store smell.
He steps back just enough to look at me, eyes lingering. “Looks so good on you, G,” he says simply, almost blushing.
I shift my shoulders, feeling it heavy against them. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” He bumps my arm lightly.
“Normally wouldn’t let anyone buy me shit like this.”
