35. George
George
I wake up before Lance does, mostly because his phone won’t stop buzzing against the nightstand.
We’re tangled up together under the heavy covers, legs hooked, his arm slung across my chest, my hand resting low on his back. Both of us in just boxers, skin warm from sleeping pressed together all night.
He surfaces with a groan, fumbles for the phone without opening his eyes. The second he reads the screen, his body stiffens. “Shit.” He jolts upright, but I hook an arm around his waist and pull him back down against me.
He huffs a soft laugh, then quickly leans in and presses a soft kiss right over my left pectoral, right above my heart, like a promise he’s not disappearing yet. “One second,” he murmurs against my skin and answers the phone.
“Hi, sorry, yeah—this is Lance.”
He stays half-draped over me for a little longer, voice dropping into that efficient, clipped tone I don’t have the vocabulary to follow.
Numbers. Foundation contacts. Something about operating reserves that tenses his jaw.
Barefoot, hair a total disaster, still wearing nothing but boxers—he somehow still looks like the one in-charge.
Ogling him, I realize this is probably what most of his mornings look like when he isn’t busy distracting me or kissing me awake.
He hangs up, drags a hand down his face, then turns and looks at me. The work face fades instantly, just for me. His eyes glow soft and warm.
“They need me for another board meeting today.” He leans down and slowly kisses me properly this time, as if he’s sorry he has to go. “Sleep in for a little while, Big Guy. I’m making breakfast.”
I grunt something that might be agreement. The clock by the wall says 7:30. I let sleep pull me back under, his kiss still warm on my chest. Rare as hell these days, but I take it.
I wake up to the smell of coffee and savory food filling the room. Sunlight spills across the big bed, warm and bright. Lance stands beside it holding a tray, looking proud but a little nervous, like he’s hoping this doesn’t fall flat.
“Morning,” he sings. “Figured you might be hungry.”
He’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The tray looks damn good—two plates of fluffy scrambled eggs mixed with herbs and melted cheese, thick slices of avocado, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and two mugs of coffee steaming gently beside them.
I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face. “You made this?”
“Yeah. I’ve been…taking some lessons from Christian, our chef, since I’ve been here.” I hear a hint of pride. He sets the tray carefully across my lap, his ears going pink at the tips.
I stare at the plate. “Where’s my burnt toast and overcooked eggs?”
Lance laughs softly and sits on the edge of the bed with his own plate. “Give me some credit. I burned only the first batch.”
I pop a bite of eggs into my mouth. It’s light, well-seasoned, cheese melted just right. The bacon is crispy, the avocado perfectly ripe. I chew slowly, secretly enjoying the flavors.
Lance watches me, waiting. “Is it okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, gruff but honest. “Congratulations.”
His shoulders relax and a small, pleased smile breaks across his face. Warmth flutters low in my stomach. I’m a grown man in my best friend’s fancy Seattle bedroom getting served breakfast in bed, and I feel stupidly happy about it.
He starts rambling while we eat, talking about the pork dish he wants to try making for me back in San Diego.
How Christian showed him a few techniques, how he burned the first batch but the second one turned out decent.
He’s trying to play it cool, but his ears stay pink and he keeps glancing at me like he’s waiting for me to laugh at him.
I don’t laugh. I just eat and listen, letting the warmth settle deep in my chest. This man flew across the country, buried himself in his mom’s care and work for a month, and still found time to learn how to cook because he wanted to do something nice for me.
I reach over and squeeze his knee under the tray. “Thanks, Lance.”
He shrugs, but the smile stays. “I’ll do more…if that’s okay with you.”
“Can’t let you outdo me.”
He scoffs at me, “I will never outdo a George Torres-Macklin when it comes to cooking. I’m not that ambitious.”
We finish breakfast in comfortable silence, knees bumping under the tray. For a little while, everything feels right that I didn’t know I was missing this badly.
Lance takes me fucking shopping.
We’re supposed to head straight to Hearthside, but he makes the turn without asking and parks in front of a row of stores that cater to men who probably own multiple estates.
The Seattle streets here are wide and clean, sidewalks swept spotless, big windows with subtle gold lettering displaying clothes that probably cost more than my truck.
People move like money is just background noise.
I don’t argue. Arguing with Lance when he’s decided something takes more energy than it’s worth.
His car looks like it doesn’t belong here at all.
A secondhand 2012 Toyota Camry, dark gray, and worn.
He bought it online from some private seller when he started doing his own errands around Seattle.
When he’s with his mom, they use the family Mercedes, a sleek black S-Class that belongs in hotel drop-offs and high-end hospital entrances.
He kills the engine and gets out like it doesn’t matter what the hell he drives or who sees him in this street.
The shop is vast and quiet. Cream walls, soft recessed lights, racks of coats and clothes spaced so far apart you could swing a cat between them without touching anything.
A glass case near the register holds watches and cufflinks glowing under clean white light.
In the back corner, there’s a raised platform with three mirrors angled around it for tailoring.
Some low instrumental music drifts from hidden speakers, the sort of thing that’s supposed to sound classy.
The whole place smells like cedar and new leather—expensive, untouched clothes that have never seen a day of real work in their lives.
Lance moves through the racks comfortably. He’s not being flashy about it—he’s just familiar with the place. He pulls a few out, holds them up, then glances at me.
“What do you think of this one?” He’s holding up a dark wool jacket, heavy and well-made. “Looks like it’d actually keep you warm up here.”
I look at the price tag. “Lance, fuck—I don’t think I can afford this.”
“Hey, don’t fucking think about that,” he places it against my chest for a second, checking the fit with a small, thoughtful frown. “You’re gonna freeze your ass off in that flannel when the rain really hits, and I’d rather not have you turning into a human icicle on my watch. Let me do this.”
I grunt. “Don’t need fancy shit.”
“It’s not fancy. It’s practical.” He smiles humbly, just trying to be useful. “You do enough for everyone else. Let me do this one little thing.”
He also picks out a couple of soft merino wool shirts in dark colors. “We’ll throw these in too, okay?”
I accept my fate.
He puts them on the counter along with other items he finds along the way.
The woman behind the counter rings the coat up without blinking at the price. Lance pays silently, then politely nods at the coat. “Can you take the tags off, please?”
She slides the scissors through the plastic loop and hands the coat back to him. Lance takes it, turns to me, and holds it open.
“Come on,” he says. “Arms in.”
I stare at him for a second, then step forward. Because I’m taller, Lance has to stand on his toes to drape the heavy wool over my shoulders. His hands smooth it down my arms, adjusting the collar with careful fingers. The coat settles warm around me, still carrying that new-store smell.
He steps back just enough to look at me, eyes lingering. “Looks so good on you, G,” he says simply, almost blushing.
I shift my shoulders, feeling it heavy against them. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” He bumps my arm lightly.
“Normally wouldn’t let anyone buy me shit like this.”
“I’m not just anyone, am I?” He smiles, smug but warm.
“Spoil me with one coat and next thing you’ll be buying me a fucking yacht.”
Lance laughs under his breath. “Only if you promise to take me out on it and complain the whole time about rich people bullshit.”
“Asshole.”
“Your asshole,” he says, grinning at me like I hung the damn moon.
We leave the store like that, the new coat warm around my shoulders. I don’t argue anymore. He’s happy. Maybe, just maybe, I can let him do this one thing.
He keeps me with him for a few hours that morning at Hearthside.
While he's in meetings, I get left in a small common room off the main corridor.
Good light. Window overlooking a garden that's empty this late in the year.
I grab a magazine, read the same page three times, then give up and watch the trees instead.
Sitting around while everyone else gets on with their day has never sat right with me.
The door opens and Lance sticks his head in. Still clearly mid-meeting, jacket off.
“G.” He looks at me. “You good?”
I grunt.
“Water station’s just down the hall, left at the nurses’ station. They know you’re with me.” A pause. “Probably another twenty minutes?”
“Lance, go back.”
He doesn’t move immediately. He stands there in the doorway looking slightly restless, like he doesn’t fully want to leave.
“Twenty minutes,” he says again, sounding apologetic.
“Go.”
He does.
He comes back in fifteen, finds me in the corridor, and falls into step beside me without saying anything about the meeting.
On the way out, he pauses to speak to someone at the front desk.
Without breaking the conversation, he reaches back and deposits a coffee in my hand.
I never even saw him pick one up. I stand in the background, waiting for their chat to be over.
Lance doesn’t take me straight back to the house.
“Come on,” he tugs, already walking the other direction. “I’ll show you around.”