I grunt. “No, don’t. You’re figuring shit out. That’s good.”
The feeling in my gut turns sharper. My stomach drops hard enough that nausea climbs up the back of my throat. I stop moving for a second, one hand braced against the counter while I breathe through it slowly. There’s a faint swimmy feeling at the edges of my vision that irritates me.
I don’t understand why the fuck this is happening. It’s just a dating app.
I stare down at the counter a second too long, trying to get myself back under control before he notices anything’s off.
Behind me, I hear Lance stand up.
“George?”
Something in his voice makes me glance over my shoulder. The second he sees my face, his expression tightens.
“You look pale as hell,” he says, already stepping closer. “What’s going on? You feeling sick?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, coughing a little and clearing my throat.
Lance doesn’t buy it. He moves right into my space and presses the back of his hand to my forehead. His skin is warm against mine, palm near my temple, his body close enough that I can feel him there everywhere at once.
For a second, my entire focus shifts to that contact—his hand on my face, his concerned eyes searching mine, the immediate instinct to lean into him instead of away. To wrap my arms around him and bury this sick fucking feeling against his shoulder until it stops twisting.
My hands clench hard at my sides, then I tap his wrist away with two fingers, grumpy on reflex. “Cut it out. I’m not dying.”
Lance’s hand hovers there a moment longer before dropping. “You’re clammy. Sit down for a minute, I’ll go grab some—”
“I said I’m fine.” I step back fast, putting the space I need between us before my hands do something stupid. I scrub onehand over my jaw and force my voice back into something normal. “Has he asked you out?”
It takes him a long second to answer. “Yeah… got that message just now. He’s picking me up.”
I nod slowly, swallowing against the fresh wave of nausea, and make myself really look at him.
“It’s two nights from now. Eight o’clock. That bar in Point Loma—Breakwater? I think we’ve been there last year.”
“Yeah. We’ve been.”
Lance lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it dies fast. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes somewhere on the floor.
“Guess I’m really doing this,” he says. “Dating guys. Trying to figure that part out.” He pauses, then adds, lower, “The wedding changed shit for me. More than I thought it would.”
The words hang there between us. The wedding. It pulls everything back into the room—all the things we’ve been pretending didn’t shift everything between us. Whatever happened that week never really ended. It’s still sitting in my chest, still moving.
“Yeah. Good for you.”
I glance at my watch, force a small smile, and gesture toward the door. “Hey, listen. Thanks for letting me crash and for breakfast. Have to swing by the shop on my way home.”
I gather my things and step into the hallway before he can say anything else.
“G, are you sure you’re okay—”
“Later,” I call out over my shoulder, trying to keep my voice light. It just comes out rough.
I close the door behind me and walk away fast, boots heavy on the concrete. I keep my eyes straight ahead and tell myself it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter that he’s figuring himself out. That some other guy gets to take him out, get close, learn what I’ve been avoiding for too long.
It fucking doesn’t matter. I’m still the friend, the one who stays.
The one he keeps.
