“I got your fucking cassette tape,” I say. “That’s the response. I’m responding now.”
He keeps his focus on the road, but I can see him fighting a smile.
“What?” I ask.
“Give me a fucking second. I’m not…I don’t know how to just…”
He glances at me, looking lost for a moment.
I let out a shaky breath. “It took me months to even reach the first step of my highly disorganized moving-on process. And then you showed up and…undid the rest.”
That hangs in a long silence.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
The turn signal clicks once before he changes lanes, and the sound feels absurdly loud in the charged silence of the car.
George lets out a slow, frustrated breath.
“Telling me you love me in a moving car,” he mutters, sounding slightly unhinged, his grip tightening on the wheel.
I shake my head. “You told me you love me on a fucking cassette tape like this is some nineties coming-of-age movie. Don’t talk to me about timing.”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he suddenly yanks the wheel hard to the right. The Gran Torino cuts sharply off the road with a crunch of tires on gravel, fishtailing just enough to make my stomach flip. We skid to a stop on a narrow overlook above the beach, the dark ocean stretching out beyond the drop, waves crashing below in low, rhythmic roars. The abrupt movement throws me forward against the seatbelt.
For a second, neither of us moves.
The engine ticks as it cools. The windows are already starting to fog from the heat rolling off both of us.
Suddenly, my backrest releases.
I let out a sharp, undignified sound as I fall back, fingers scrambling for the door handle. “Whatthe—”
George leans over me, one big hand still on the seat lever. He doesn’t give me time to finish. His mouth crashes into mine, months of hunger and relief all at once. His possessive tongue pushes past my lips, and I meet him with the same frantic desperation.
The kiss is messy and urgent, like we’re both terrified the other might disappear again. I taste want, apology, and something that feels dangerously like forever. Months of frustration and want pouring out all at once.
Fuck. Can’t believe I went this long without him.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathing hard, staring up at the roof of the old car like it holds answers.
“You fucking barbarian,” I say, still breathless. “You dropped my seat.”
George looks down at me, his face lit by the soft gold spilling from the restaurant above. His eyes are open and warm.
“I love you.”
The words slam into me, stealing my breath and leaving me reeling. His voice rough with feeling. “I’m fucking in love with you, Lance. Can’t even contain it anymore.”
He straightens my seat carefully, then reaches over and takes both of my hands in his. He brings them to his lips and kisses my knuckles, eyes glistening in the low light. He pushes a stray piece of hair off my forehead, then places his thumb on my lower lip like he’s memorizing the moment.
I feel dizzy, like the ground just tilted and I’m perfectly happy to fall.
“Yeah,” I manage, voice a little hoarse. “I’m crazy about you too. I love you.”
We both twist around at the same time, staring into the back seat like it might magically expand. It doesn’t. It’s a fucking classic car—beautiful, but not much space.
