“What’s keeping it from an A?”
Lance glances up at me, one eyebrow raised, a playful expression that makes my stomach do a weird flip. “The giant gash, obviously. It really brings down the aesthetic.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind next time heavy metal objects are falling on me.”
“Appreciate it.” He’s applying antibiotic ointment, and I’m trying very hard not to notice how close his hands are to areas that are absolutely off-limits. “So, real talk. How’s the pain? And don’t give me the tough guy routine, because I can tell when people are lying.”
The honest answer? It still hurts like hell when I move. There’s a deep throb running up into my hip and down toward my knee. The answer I want to give is that it’s fine, that I can handle it. I settle somewhere in between. “It’s manageable. Mornings are the worst, but once I start moving, it eases up. The hand’s more of a pain than anything else.”
“Because it’s painful?” he snorts.
“More of a pain in that I can’t do anything that needs both hands working, which is pretty much everything here and at the shop.” I flex my left hand, the good one, just to remind myself it still works. “I’ve been trying to tackle some lighter jobs, but Carter keeps watching me like he’s waiting for me to pass out so he can say he told me so.”
Lance nods while securing fresh gauze over the wound. “Carter has a point. You literally just had a shelf fall on you. Maybe take more than three days before coming back on site.”
“It’s my shop.”
“And it’s your body, genius. It’ll heal a lot faster if you actually rest instead of pretending you’re invincible.” He tapes down the last edge of the bandage and sits back, stripping off his gloves. “There. You’re good for another twenty-four hours. Please try not to do anything stupid with it.”
“Doing anything stupid is more your area.”
“Stupid in this context is anything that requires me to explain to Dr. Fernandez why her perfect suture job got pulled open because you insisted on changing someone’s oil filter.” Lance picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, watches me over the rim. “I know you’ve already been running through every single thing you want to do at the shop the second I leave.”
He’s not wrong, but I’m not confirming it.
“I know you, man. Physically incapable of sitting still for more than ten minutes unless there’s a football game on or you’re unconscious.”
I grab my own coffee just to have something to do with my good hand. “Shop doesn’t run itself.”
“Carter can handle it for a few days.” Lance leans back against the couch, getting comfortable, making it look like he’s planning to stay for a while. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or concerned about that. “Besides, you’ve got me here to keep you entertained. I’m delightful company.”
“You’re something, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.” He’s looking around my living room now, and I try to see it through his eyes. The Gran Torino print above the TV, dark green and chrome, the car my father wanted his whole life and never got around to buying. His photos on the shelf across three decades,different ages, same steadiness in his eyes across all of them. The worn leather couch broken in over years until it holds the shape of whoever sits in it. The toolbox table, a converted three-drawer Snap-on that came home from the shop because the shop had no use for it anymore, scratched along the top and solid as a bank vault.
Lance has his feet up on it already. He’s been doing that since the early days, and I never bothered asking him to put it down after a while.
“You working tonight?” I ask, needing something to break the silence.
“Yeah. It’s three to eleven, which gives me a few hours to kill.” Lance is still looking around, and his eyes land on the TV. “You gonna put onSupernaturalor what?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
He grabs the remote off my coffee table. “Season four, right?”
I grunt.
He’s already scrolling. The thing is, we’ve been doing this for years. Lance shows up at my place, I drop by his, we eat, watch TV, sit in the same space without forcing conversation. We startedSupernaturala few months back when he needed something to run through between night shifts. It’s about Dean and Sam Winchester, two brothers hunting demons and monsters while juggling family drama. It gives us easy entertainment.
The episode starts. The opening riff of “Carry On Wayward Son” fills the living room, jangling guitars and harmonies that have become part of our ritual. Lance drops onto the couch beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. We sit there watching, letting the noise of the show take over.
Then Lance says it, completely casual. “You know, Dean’s pretty hot.”
I turn my head. “Hmm?”
“Dean Winchester. He’s objectively attractive.” Lance looks at me and shrugs. “I can appreciate a really good-looking guy.”
I take a second to process this. “I guess I never really looked at it that way.”
