It's all I've got. The word’s just enough to end the conversation before we both say something we'll regret.
He falls asleep before I do. One arm heavy across my ribs, a leg thrown over mine. Face buried against my shoulder. Even unconscious, he's got me boxed in. The bastard still tries to keep me pinned close like he’s afraid I’ll slip out if he loosens up.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe. Turning the whole damn thing over until the numbers on the bedside clock blur together.
I fly home the next day. Lance stays behind for two more days to wrap up some things.
He kisses me hard at the airport, full of promise and that silent affection. He tells me he’ll be back soon. I tell him to take whatever time he needs.
I mean it when I say it.
By the time I land, I stop pretending I don’t know where this is heading.
36
Lance
The drive from Spring Valley to Chula Vista takes twenty-three minutes with light traffic and too much time to think.
I landed forty minutes ago. Carry-on only, straight through the terminal, car keys in hand before I’d fully cleared the gate. I told myself I’d go home first. Drop the bag, shower, be a person. I made it as far as the parking structure before I got in the car and pointed it toward Chula Vista instead.
I keep the windows down and the radio loud enough to drown out the parts of my brain trying to rehearse the conversation. Every version comes out wrong anyway. The words keep shifting around, never quite fitting together the way I want them to.
That’s what happens when you’re rehearsing the wrong one. That one’s been following me around since Marcus told George about Seattle.
The shop looks exactly the same from the outside.
I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s been a month, not a year, but I hang around in the lot for a while before I get out, just taking it in. Carter’s at the front desk when I walk in. He greets me with a nod.
I tap the door three times before pushing it open.
George looks up before I’ve crossed half the floor. He goes still for a second—just for a beat—and then he’s already standing, moving. I’m already moving too, and we meet somewhere in the middle of the office doorway like neither of us could help it.
He pulls me in without saying a word. Both arms, the full weight of him, like he’s been waiting to do exactly this and has run out of patience for any other version of hello. I press my face into his neck and hold on tight, breathing him in—motor oil, soap, home. For one perfect moment, everything else falls away. There are probably three mechanics visible through the glass and I can’t bring myself to fucking care even a little.
“Hey,” he whispers, tone affectionate.
“Hey,” I whisper back into his shoulder, clinging harder.
We stay like that for a long time. When he finally pulls back it’s not all the way—his hands linger on my shoulders, thumbs pressing in like he’s checking I’m real. His eyes are dark and hungry for a split second, then the shutters slam down. There’s something guarded there now, pulled back and careful. It wasn’t there before I left. He’s glad to see me, but there’s something beneath the surface I have a feeling I’m not going to like.
He clears his throat and steps back, dropping his hands. “Wasn’t expecting you until later.”
I shrug, trying to smile. “Seemed stupid to not see you now.”
He steps back and gestures at the chair across from his desk. His face hardens a little, jaw hardening even with the faint smile he manages to put on.
I sit down. I try to focus on why I’m actually here first thing. “Got something for you.”
I spent some time during the first two weeks in Seattle building a plan for him between mom and Hearthside Home. I pull a single folded piece of paper from my pocket, sliding it across the desk.
George scans it, then directs his focus back to me.
“I’ve got this friend, Oscar Whitfield,” I say. “We used to run in the same circles in Seattle. He spent the last few years building fundraising strategies for nonprofit networks. Knows this landscape better than anybody I could think to call.”
I lean forward, tapping the paper. “He gave me six good contacts. Two are warm leads already. One’s a veteran business coalition with emergency funding specifically for short-window buyouts. Another is a private foundation that’s moved money in under thirty days before if the case is strong enough. Oscar listened to me talk about the shop and said it sounded like a strong case. He was glad I called him first.”
George finally studies the paper, but he still doesn’t reach for it.
