He goes silent, deciding whether to lie or commit. “Nothing. You’re still in your work clothes. You don’t usually come here like that.”
I glance down. He’s right. I’m still in my navy blues from the hospital, didn’t even think about it. “Yeah, sorry. I normally change before I leave so I don’t bring half the hospital home with me.” I start to get up. “I’ve got a clean change of clothes in my car, I’ll just —”
“Don’t.”
It comes out a beat too quick, then he immediately fixes his eyes on the TV like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen in his life.
“Don’t change,” he adds, more controlled now. “They’re fine.”
I sit back down slowly.
Right.
There’s something happening here. I just don’t know what flavor of denial it is yet.
And I’ve known George long enough to know he’s never this bad at pretending nothing is happening unless something very much is, which raises an interesting question.
Do I want to be wrong about this? Maybe, because I think I might enjoy being right a little too much.
“George,” I say.
“What?”
“You like me in these?”
“Fuck off.”
“What? I asked a simple question.”
He’s caught, irritated, and failing spectacularly at hiding it. “Can we just watch the show?”
“Sure,” I say pleasantly. I let exactly forty-five seconds pass.
“It’s the uniform, isn’t it? You’ve got a thing about the scrubs. Or is it specifically me in these scrubs?”
“Lance.”
“There’s actual psychology behind it,” I continue, as if I’m delivering a case study to a very unwilling audience. “When someone finds competence attractive, especially combined with a uniform, it’s called a competence kink. Medically speaking, it’s very common. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s the whole he-knows-exactly-what-he’s-doing-with-his-hands thing that turns people on —”
“Just stop talking,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
“I’m a health professional. I can discuss this with complete clinical objectivity.”
“What happened to men being able to say another man looks good without it turning into… whatever this is?” he asks, hands briefly lifting like he can’t find a better way to contain the situation.
“That one doesn’t apply here.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because you’re not casually saying I look good,” I say, glancing at him. “You’re thinking it very loudly hoping I don’t notice.”
That does it.
George turns to look at me properly. His expression shifts into something raw that knocks the air out of me. His gaze drags down my body, lingering hard, like he’s finally done holding back.
“Fair enough,” he says, voice rough like it got caught on something on the way out. “You look too fucking good in those scrubs.”
Oh.
