I drop my gaze to the dashboard before he can see what that does to me. My vision blurs. I blink hard, grateful it’s dark so he can’t see me sitting here like I’ve just been emotionally rear-ended while he’s driving his dad’s dream car down a dark coastal road.
This is the calmest I’ve felt in months. The engine rumble, the low heat coming through the vents—it’s all working together to lower my defenses whether I like it or not.
Then, like he can’t hold it in anymore, he says it into the dark.
“I fucking miss you.”
My throat tightens so fast it’s almost violent. I keep my eyes locked on the water outside, pretending the sudden sting in themis from anything else anything except the way his words just went straight through me and left nothing untouched behind.
He keeps going, voice cracking but clear.
“The day you left San Diego, this heavy fucking ache started in my chest. I could barely breathe. Could barely eat. I still dragged my ass out of bed every day, opened the shop, fixed cars, worked on the buyout. Kept building whatever future I was trying to scrape together, but none of it felt right. Nothing’s felt right since you left.”
I feel stripped bare, completely off-balance, like he just reached in and flipped every switch I’d spent months trying to shut off.
“This is why I left the shop for someone else to manage,” he says, voice rougher now. He’s past the point of debating it. “Can’t live in my father’s shadow and call it a future that’s mine. He’s gone. You’re here. I pick the present with you. If that meant leaving everything else behind, then that’s what it was. And I don’t regret it, not once, even on the days you ignore me or throw away the coffee.”
He draws in a slow, heavy breath, then lets it out.
“This car is probably the last thing I’ll ever keep exactly the way it belonged to him. And that’s enough. I can love my father without living my whole life buried beside him.”
He looks at me, eyes shining in the dark.
“But the rest of it—the present, the future—I want that to belong to us. I want you in my life, Lance. All in, not in fucking pieces. I’ll do it even if I have to crawl through hell to earn my old spot in your life back.”
The words wrap around me like heavy, warm chains. I press my palm harder against the leather armrest, feeling the engine thrum through my bones while my stupid heart tries to climb out of my ribcage and throw itself at him.
I’m gathering my thoughts while actively fighting for my life in here, then I go with the first thing that lets me keep whatever dignity I’ve got left.
“Am I still your emergency contact?”
George’s brain visibly lags. “My what?”
“I’m asking if I’m still your emergency contact,” I say, “or have I been demoted to the role of ex-fuck buddy slash current professional menace who can at least do CPR?”
When it clicks for him, George coughs out a laugh that sounds close to a choked-off groan. He clears his throat hard, clearly trying to drag himself back into something resembling serious, grumpy territory.
“Yeah…” he says, clearly a little thrown that I’ve picked this moment for something so painfully mundane. “Listed you a while back. Should’ve asked first. Sorry. I’ll change it if you—”
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean, yes. Keep me. I’ll put you down as mine too. Seems only fair.”
He makes a small, strangled sound, like he’s trying to hold it together and failing a little. “Why?”
I stare straight ahead for half a second, then just say it before I change my mind.
“Because I love you too, you absolute pain in the ass.”
Silence stretches for a full minute. I can feel him trying to process it. I turn to look at him. His mouth is slightly open.
“What did you just say?”
“I love you too,” I say, a little louder, letting some sarcasm slip in. “God, aren’t we slow tonight?”
“That’s not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “That’s not a response to what I just said.”
