CHAPTER 25 JORGE—THE RE
Jorge's been sitting in the parking lot since seven that morning, engine off, windows down, the Regal finally finished enough to drive even if the paint job's still bare metal in three places.
Called Shawn's public defender two weeks after his own release, left his number, asked her to call if anything moved on the case.
She'd sounded surprised somebody bothered asking.
Jorge hadn't explained why. Didn't figure it was any of her business, and didn't trust himself to talk about it without saying more than he meant to.
She called yesterday. Said today was the day, one way or the other. Didn't say which way.
Jorge hasn't eaten since last night. Hasn't slept much either, running through both versions in his head on a loop he can't shut off—Shawn walking out into daylight, or Shawn walking back to a cell for years Jorge's not sure either of them would survive waiting through.
The doors finally open just past one. Jorge's out of the car before he's decided to move, heart slamming so hard it's the only thing he can hear.
Shawn steps out into the lot, blinking against the sun, looking smaller than Jorge remembers him, thinner, a borrowed suit hanging wrong off his shoulders. He hasn't seen Jorge yet. Stands there a full second just breathing, like the air itself is something he forgot how to take for granted.
Then he turns. Sees the car. Sees Jorge standing next to it.
Everything in Shawn's face breaks open at once.
"Jorge—"
He's moving before he finishes the name, and Jorge meets him halfway across the lot, and then Shawn's in his arms, solid and real and shaking, and Jorge holds on like letting go might undo whatever just happened in that courtroom.
"Time served," Shawn gets out, muffled against Jorge's shoulder, voice cracking wide open. "Jorge, they gave me time served. I'm out. I'm actually out."
"I know." Jorge's own voice isn't steady either, not even close. "Attorney called yesterday. Didn't know which way it went till I saw your face just now."
"You've been out here since—"
"Since this morning. Wasn't missing it." Jorge pulls back just far enough to look at him, hands cupping Shawn's face like he's checking he's really there. "Not for anything."
Shawn laughs, wet and disbelieving, and kisses him right there in the middle of the lot, careless of who's watching, careless of everything except the fact that there's no guard, no clock, no six-foot cell keeping this contained to stolen minutes anymore.
Jorge kisses him back just as hard, hands fisting in the ugly borrowed jacket, and for a second neither of them can do anything but stand there shaking against each other in the sun.
"The shop," Shawn says finally, breathless. "You said you'd be there. You said—"
"Said I'd be there when you got out. Figured 'there' could mean wherever you actually were." Jorge presses his forehead to Shawn's, eyes shut. "Let's go home."
The drive back is quiet, charged, Shawn's hand resting on Jorge's thigh the entire way like he needs the contact just to believe any of this is real.
Jorge doesn't complain. Keeps one hand on the wheel and the other laced through Shawn's, driving slower than he needs to, stretching out every second of a drive he's imagined a hundred different ways since the day the cell door shut between them.
The shop's dark when they pull in, gate down, second bay empty exactly the way Jorge left it. He cuts the engine, and for a second neither of them moves.
"You finished it," Shawn says, staring at the Regal's silhouette through the windshield. "The build."
"Left the last panel for you. Figured you'd want to put your own hands on something before you called it done."
Shawn turns to look at him, something raw and overwhelmed moving across his face. "You kept the second bay empty."
"Told you I would."
Shawn doesn't answer that with words. Climbs out of the car, pulls Jorge with him toward the shop's side door, and the second it's shut behind them, locked, private, no guard's boots anywhere within miles, he's got both hands fisted in Jorge's shirt.
"No clock this time," Shawn breathes. "No twenty minutes. No shift change."
"No." Jorge backs him against the wall, mouth finding his throat. "Take as long as we want."
They don't rush it this time. Can't, not with months of stolen minutes finally given all the time in the world to spend.
Jorge undresses him slow, deliberate, reverent in a way he never let himself be inside those walls, mapping every inch of Shawn like he's cataloging proof that this is real and not another cell-block fantasy he's going to wake from.
"I missed this," Shawn gasps, as Jorge's mouth drags lower, "missed you, God, Jorge—"
"I know." Jorge's voice comes out rough against his skin. "Missed you every single day. Every single one."
He takes his time working Shawn open, unhurried, thorough, drawing sounds out of him that neither of them ever had the luxury of making loud before, and Shawn doesn't bite anything back this time, doesn't muffle a single gasp, lets every bit of it fill a room that finally, finally belongs to just the two of them.
"Jorge, please—"
"Got you. Got you now."
When Jorge finally pushes into him, slow and deep, both of them groan out loud together, no reason left to hold anything back, and Jorge sets a rhythm that's neither desperate nor restrained, just full, unhurried want, two men who've earned the right to take their time.
"Look at me," Jorge says, hips rolling deep, hand cupping Shawn's jaw. "Want to see you. The whole time."
Shawn does, eyes locked on his through every thrust, hands gripping Jorge's shoulders hard enough to bruise, and something passes between them that's bigger than the act itself, months of rationed vulnerability finally spending all at once.
"I love you," Shawn breathes, wrecked, like the words have been sitting behind his teeth for weeks waiting for a room safe enough to say them in. "God, Jorge, I love you."
Jorge's rhythm stutters, overwhelmed, and he buries his face in Shawn's neck, hips still moving, voice breaking around the words he's never said to anybody since Rubén died and never expected to mean this much saying to anybody again.
"Love you too. Been loving you since a damn car magazine, probably. Just too stubborn to say it."
They finish together, tangled and unhurried and finally, fully free, no flashlight beam waiting to interrupt, no clock counting down behind either of their eyes.
After, lying on a blanket thrown over the shop's cold concrete floor, Shawn traces a finger along the old scars on Jorge's forearm, quiet, content in a way Jorge's not sure either of them has earned the right to feel yet and is going to hold onto anyway.
"Second bay's really mine?" Shawn asks.
"Yours. Was always gonna be yours." Jorge presses a kiss to his temple. "Question's whether you're ready to actually learn how to use it, or if you're gonna make me regret this decision."
"Try me."
Jorge smiles, real and unguarded, and pulls him closer.
Outside, the sun's starting to set on the first day of the rest of whatever this is going to become.