“Yeah.”
There’s a pause long enough that I think he’s changed his mind. Then, his voice comes lower in the dark.
“That night, before Trevor’s wedding. When we were…both with Adrian and the others.”
I remember it instantly. The moment my hard cock brushed against his ass, the sudden heat of it, the way everything in me locked up because it was goddamn Lance. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen.
He exhales, resets. “When you—” He cuts himself off. Tries again. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It’s happening again right now. And I don’t want you to move, not like what you did last time. Not even an inch.”
I draw him in even more without thinking. “Same here.”
The silence feels heavy in the room.
There’s no hiding my erection in this position, spooned tight with my chest to his back and my hips fitted against his ass. But this isn’t about sex.
I press my face into the back of his neck and hold him closer.
“It wasn’t nothing,” I say, the words scraping out of me.
“No,” he whispers. “Guess not.”
He reaches back and wraps my arm tighter around his chest, needy, like he thinks I might still pull away. Neither of us says anything else.
His breathing slowly evens out again. This time he finally falls asleep in my arms.
I run through all the times we’ve shared space like this before. Trevor’s dorm room years ago when Lance passed out against my shoulder. The hotel room at my cousin’s wedding in Sacramento four years back, where he somehow ended up wedged between both beds by morning. Every bar we closed down together. Every long road trip where we split the driving and talked about every fucking thing and nothing at all. I’ve slept next to this man in oneway or another more times than I can count. We always ended up wherever the hell we ended up.
But tonight feels different. I’m holding him close enough to feel every breath he takes against my chest, and I keep telling myself the difference doesn’t matter yet. Not until he figures out what he’s really looking for and whether any of this means the same thing to both of us.
I close my eyes. I just know I’m not letting him go unless he wants me to.
22
George
I drop Lance at the hospital a little before seven and head straight for the shop.
His car is still idling rough in the driveway, alternator rattling worse than yesterday. I tell him again he needs to bring it in so I can fix it properly, but if the alternator’s gone I’ll need it for a few days. I’ve offered him one of my spare vehicles at the shop more than once. Same answer every time. Later. After overtime. After the next shift. Whatever version of later fits the week.
He says it like the problem will politely wait for him to have time.
The shop keeps me busy enough to stop thinking about it. Silverado transmission finally buttoned up. Two scheduled services. One walk-in coolant leak that turns out to be a cracked reservoir and a swap. Nothing that makes me stay late.
At three, I pull up outside the hospital.
Lance comes through the sliding doors a couple minutes later still in scrubs, carrying the usual post-shift exhaustion from eight hours on his feet.
He climbs into the truck with a long exhale and immediately kicks off his shoes.
“Long day?” I ask.
“The usual,” he says. “But I’m alive. Barely.”
I pull away from the curb.
Traffic’s light heading south. Lance spends most of the drive half-slumped against the seat, eyes drifting shut every few minutes while the stereo plays. By the time we hit his street, some of the exhaustion’s worn off him.
I slow near the mailboxes at the front of his building.
