I stand up and walk straight to the bathroom before he can say anything else. The door clicks shut behind me.
I stay there for a moment, hands braced on the sink, trying to get my breathing under control.
This is Lance. My best friend for ten years. The guy who gives me constant shit about everything, eats my food, falls asleep on my shoulder when we watch television. There’s no reason for my chest to feel like this just because he’s wearing an old hoodie I don’t even use anymore.
I exhale through my nose and force myself to move.
Right, bathroom.
My eyes drift to the shelf. Our toothbrushes are standing side by side in the same cup holder. Same routine and space. There’s nothing new about it.
But now it doesn’t feel the same in my head.
I brush my teeth longer than necessary, then take my time in front of the mirror. Beard’s fine. Hair’s not great, but it’ll do without a shower. Good enough.
When I step back out, Lance is at the counter finishing breakfast. Eggs, toast, bacon arranged neatly across the small kitchen table.
He looks up as I come back in and catches me staring at my hoodie on him.
“What?” he says, looking down at himself. “Oh, yeah, this. I guess it’s been here so long it feels like it’s part of my wardrobe now.” He tugs at the hem, the sleeves flopping comically over his hands. “You want it back?”
He reaches for the hem like he’s going to pull it off. I see a strip of his stomach, the hard line of his abs, the band of his boxer shorts sitting low on his hips. My brain shuts down completely.
“No!” The word comes out too loud and fast. “Keep it. Don’t want it back.”
Lance pauses mid-strip. The hoodie is still halfway up his torso, his left pink nipple peeking out. I can see the defined V of his hip bones, and a whole lot of skin. He looks at me, confused, while I’m still staring at way too much of him.
Fucker. My hands are practically shaking with the urge to grab his torso and maul it.
“You don’t?” he says.
I’m scrambling for footing here. “Doesn’t fit me anymore. Put on more muscle since.”
What dumb shit am I saying?
He looks confused, but he’s letting it go.
“Okay, suit yourself,” he says, pulling it down and gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit. Eat.”
The thing with Lance is he can’t cook for shit. The toast comes out too dark in patches, the eggs overdone at the edges, but I’ve been eating whatever he manages to throw together from his kitchen for years now, especially on mornings like this when I’m not the one cooking.
“You missed a spot burning this section here,” I say, pointing at the corner of the toast. It’s not a complaint, just an observation.
He fucking laughs. “Oh, that’s actually hard to achieve.” He smiles sweetly at me, doing more damage.
I chomp down on a big forkful of eggs. He cooked them, so they get eaten. That’s the rule.
“So, Carter’s got something he needs to talk to you about?” Lance says eventually, reaching for the hot sauce. “At the shop?”
“Yeah. He texted yesterday, probably about ProMotive again.”
“They still trying to buy you out?”
“They’re persistent,” I say, and take a piece of bacon off his plate.
He doesn’t even look up before slapping my hand away.
“Latest offer came in last week,” I add. “Better terms, more money. The usual.”
