6. Lance
Lance
“You’re going to miss this when it’s over,” I say, smoothing the last strip of tape down over George’s bandage.
Close to two weeks since the accident and we’ve settled into a routine, working the dressing changes around my hospital shifts.
I know the stubborn bastard still slips into the shop every day, so the least I can do is make sure the wound stays clean.
George tips his head back and stares at the ceiling like he’s asking for divine intervention. “Yeah. Gonna miss spreading my thighs for you every damn day.”
Heat creeps up my neck at his choice of words and I ignore it like the responsible adult I am.
“I’m great company and you know it.” I peel off my gloves and drop them in the waste bag. “Wound looks good, by the way. You could probably handle it yourself at this point.”
“Good. Getting worn out by your face.”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot. I’m such a delight.” I start packing my supplies, slower than necessary. It’s not the twelve-hour shift catching up to me, even though I should have gone straight home and come back after some sleep. It’s the fact that once I zip this bag, I don’t have a reason to stay.
George solves the problem by picking up a pizza box from the kitchen counter and opening it in my direction. “Ordered while you were parking. Sit down.”
I sit without arguing. It’s been six hours since I ate a stale granola bar from my locker, and George has a way of knowing these things about me without being told.
He puts Supernatural on, hands me a slice, and drops back into his spot on the couch.
It’s been decided for me that I’m staying, and I find I have absolutely no objections.
We’re halfway into an episode and most of the pizza is gone when I notice George isn’t actually watching the screen. His attention keeps slipping—quick, illegal little glances in my direction that he clearly thinks are stealthy.
They’re not.
I work in a place where spotting subtle changes in people is basically a survival skill, and I’ve had ten years of practice on this particular man.
“Alright, what?” I ask.
“What?”
“You keep looking at me. Do I have sauce on my face?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep staring?”
He goes silent, deciding whether to lie or commit. “Nothing. You’re still in your work clothes. You don’t usually come here like that.”
I glance down. He’s right. I’m still in my navy blues from the hospital, didn’t even think about it. “Yeah, sorry. I normally change before I leave so I don’t bring half the hospital home with me.” I start to get up. “I’ve got a clean change of clothes in my car, I’ll just —”
“Don’t.”
It comes out a beat too quick, then he immediately fixes his eyes on the TV like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen in his life.
“Don’t change,” he adds, more controlled now. “They’re fine.”
I sit back down slowly.
Right.
There’s something happening here. I just don’t know what flavor of denial it is yet.
And I’ve known George long enough to know he’s never this bad at pretending nothing is happening unless something very much is, which raises an interesting question.
Do I want to be wrong about this? Maybe, because I think I might enjoy being right a little too much.
“George,” I say.
“What?”
“You like me in these?”
“Fuck off.”
“What? I asked a simple question.”
He’s caught, irritated, and failing spectacularly at hiding it. “Can we just watch the show?”
“Sure,” I say pleasantly. I let exactly forty-five seconds pass.
“It’s the uniform, isn’t it? You’ve got a thing about the scrubs. Or is it specifically me in these scrubs?”
“Lance.”
“There’s actual psychology behind it,” I continue, as if I’m delivering a case study to a very unwilling audience.
“When someone finds competence attractive, especially combined with a uniform, it’s called a competence kink.
Medically speaking, it’s very common. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
It’s the whole he-knows-exactly-what-he’s-doing-with-his-hands thing that turns people on —”
“Just stop talking,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
“I’m a health professional. I can discuss this with complete clinical objectivity.”
“What happened to men being able to say another man looks good without it turning into… whatever this is?” he asks, hands briefly lifting like he can’t find a better way to contain the situation.
“That one doesn’t apply here.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because you’re not casually saying I look good,” I say, glancing at him. “You’re thinking it very loudly hoping I don’t notice.”
That does it.
George turns to look at me properly. His expression shifts into something raw that knocks the air out of me. His gaze drags down my body, lingering hard, like he’s finally done holding back.
“Fair enough,” he says, voice rough like it got caught on something on the way out. “You look too fucking good in those scrubs.”
Oh.
Okay.
The low growl of his voice sinks into me.
Heat flares hot and urgent in my belly, then rushes south so fast. I shift hard in my seat, suddenly overly conscious of how the scrub top sits against my skin.
The V-neck feels too open, exposing the base of my throat and the top of my chest. I can feel his eyes there, like a touch.
My hips feel locked under his stare, the thin fabric suddenly too tight across my thighs and ass.
My cock twitches hard in my pants. I have to fight the urge to adjust myself right there on the couch.
Fuck. Ten years of being around this guy and one look from him now has me half-hard and overheating like a teenager.
Serves me right for poking the fucking bear.
I try to recover fast. The pizza between us has gone completely cold and neither of us has noticed.
“No—see—now we have to unpack it. We’ve known each other a long time and you pick today to start? That’s suspicious.”
“Didn’t make it a thing when you said I looked hot in those shorts the other day,” he mutters.
“That was different.”
It wasn’t fucking different. I could see the full length of his inner thighs and a very obvious dick print pressing against the thin fabric.
He wasn’t even hard, and the size of that thing needs to be studied.
I was actively trying not to stare at it while doing the dressing change.
It was hot-hot, not the not-weird hot. But he doesn’t need to know that right now.
“George, they’re not even fitted. They’re standard-issue hospital scrubs, and there’s nothing remotely interesting about —”
“Lance.”
“What?”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just gives me that heavy, direct look that means he’s done playing games. The room feels much warmer than it did five minutes ago, and I know the ceiling fan is still going because I can hear it, so that’s not it.
I need a second to process the complete absurdity of this.
My best friend, former Navy mechanic, once fixed a naval ship engine with a cracked rib and said nothing about it for three days, is currently getting visibly undone by standard-issue hospital scrubs.
My scrubs. On my body. The same body he’s seen plenty of times before, and this has never once been an issue until right now in this apartment, on this fucking couch.
I have no framework for this, and I built a career on having frameworks for things.
The episode keeps playing. Neither of us is watching it.
George’s arm is stretched along the back of the couch behind me, not touching my shoulders, just there and present.
The couch is not a large couch. I’m very much aware of the heat radiating from his arm across the back of my neck, a slow, insistent warmth that has nothing to do with the evening air.
I haven’t moved away from it and he hasn’t pulled it back.
I should probably move. For some reason, I can’t.
I pick up my pizza. It gives my hands something to do that isn’t reaching for the solid line of his thigh inches from mine, or sliding my palm along the tense muscle of his forearm, or any of the dozen other things my body is suddenly loud about wanting.
The show runs on. Outside, a car moves down the street and the headlights sweep briefly across the ceiling and then it’s dark again.
At some point, I’ve shifted toward him without deciding to, body moving before the brain gets a vote.
I’m near enough now that if either of us turned our heads, our mouths would be dangerously close.
I’m close enough that I can feel the faint shift of his breathing, deeper and slower than it was an hour ago.
I eat my pizza. He’s looking at the screen, or pretending to.
His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping under the skin, and I know that look too well.
He’s holding himself completely still on purpose, every inch of that big body locked down like he’s afraid the smallest movement will snap whatever thin thread is still holding us in place.
The episode ends.
Neither of us reaches for the remote.
The next episode automatically rolls in. The ceiling fan turns lazily overhead. Warm evening air moves through the open window. Neither of us picks the conversation back up. George’s arm is closer than it was before. Or I am. I’m really not fucking sure anymore which one of us moved.
Every point on my skin nearest to him is running hot, and I’m absolutely not letting myself imagine how little space is left between us.
I don’t check how close we really are.
I don’t dare.