9. Lance #3
When I look up again, he’s already turning back toward her, but it isn’t seamless. He says something with that same small lift of his hand and slight tilt of his head I know well enough to recognize as an apology without even hearing it.
His date smiles and keeps talking because she already has his attention again.
And there it is—that sickening realization that somewhere along the way, George stopped feeling entirely separate from me. We fit into each other’s lives so naturally that I never noticed how used to him I’d become until I had to watch him turn that attention toward somebody else.
George says something and stands, heading toward the restrooms. A few minutes later, I follow him, my feet moving on their own.
The hallway is narrow, dimly lit, the walls close enough that voices from the bar feel muffled and distant. I catch him just as he’s stepping out. He stops short when he sees me, surprise flashing across his face.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” His eyes drag over me slowly. “I was about to come find you.”
“Yeah, well…saved you a trip.”
We stand there in the cramped space, neither of us moving. The heavy and uncomfortable silence stretches, like we both know we shouldn’t be meeting down here while his date waits at the table.
A loud group pushes through the corridor, laughing and talking too loud, forcing us to move.
I step sideways into the small recessed alcove by the restroom door to let them pass.
George follows on instinct, ending up backed against the wall with me pressed close in front of him.
One of my thighs slips between his. The group squeezes by, and we’re suddenly trapped in the tight space, breathing the same air, bodies aligned from chest to hip.
Neither of us pulls away.
“Fuck,” I mutter, bracing one hand on his chest for balance. I can feel his steady but fast heartbeat under my palm. “Sorry, didn’t mean to—”
His hand is still gripping my arm from when he steadied me. He doesn’t let go.
Guilt twists sharp in my stomach. There’s a woman out there waiting for him, and here I am, cornering him in a hallway like I have any right to steal these extra seconds.
But I don’t fucking step back, and George doesn’t push me away.
His gaze drops to my mouth, the heat between us starting to feel dangerous, thick enough to choke on.
Another person squeezes past, muttering “excuse me,” and forces us even tighter together.
George’s thigh now presses firmly between mine.
His free hand lands on my waist like instinct, fingers flexing against my side.
For one long, charged second we’re locked there—the faint scent of his skin and cologne filling my head.
Close enough that if either of us moved even closer, our mouths would crash together.
I think I want it so badly my hands shake, but I try to break it.
“You should get back,” I say roughly. “She seems…nice.”
George exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh but darker. “She is.”
“Good.” The word tastes bitter. “You deserve nice.”
His fingers pull me fractionally closer for half a heartbeat before he catches himself. I can feel the restraint, see the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes flicker with something frustrated and raw.
“Lance.”
I swallow hard. “Be careful, yeah? Wrap it up. Safety first and all that shit.”
The second the words are out, horror floods me. George stares at me, eyes wide, then lets out a choked, disbelieving sound.
“Jesus Christ. You’re fucking killing me.”
We finally break apart as the hallway clears. The loss of contact feels worse than being pressed together. Cold rushes in where his body had been.
“Yeah…see you later,” I say, backing up on unsteady legs. “Or not. Whatever.”
George nods once, jaw tight. “Later.”
I turn and walk back toward the table, chest aching with every step. Charlie gives me a questioning look when I sit down. I just shake my head.
The sharp and unrelenting feeling digs in deeper. I suddenly know I need to leave before too much of it shows on my face.
“I’m heading out,” I say, already reaching for my jacket.
Charlie frowns. “Already?”
“Yeah. Got a headache.”
She studies me for a second, then softens a little. “Okay. Text me when you get home? And drink water. You look a little dead.”
“Looking clinically dead is pretty standard for us nurses,” I say, managing something close to a smile. Out loud, it comes out light. Inside, I’m already fucking done.
I nod at the others, throwing out a quick goodbye that comes out easy enough.
I don’t look back at the corner table. I step out into the night air, warm with the smell of the water, and walk to my car. It leaves me alone with this angsty feeling, and it doesn’t ease up just because I’m not looking at him anymore.
Him sitting across from someone else shouldn’t feel like this. He’s my friend. That’s the line this was always supposed to stay inside.
Except somewhere along the way, I stopped standing on my side of it.
Watching somebody else have pieces of him I didn’t realize I’d already started claiming in my head burns a little inside, more than it has any right to.