Page 3 of The Quirky Vet (Vet Shop Boys Down Under #2)

Muir

Fitz is shirtless, his beard is wet, and his hair is tucked under a shower cap, the green dye he applied to both areas ten minutes ago still setting, and he's perched on his bed painting his fingernails a glittery green because colour coordination is important.

Welcome to our normal.

It's all part of the territory that comes with being besties with a TikTokker. He's going to film some new content since his double proposal plan didn't come to pass for reasons that need no further explanation. With some free time on my hands after we got back from the Gold Coast, I offered to help him out. To be honest, I think Gramps was keen to see the back of my miserable, moping arse for a few hours.

I'm rifling through Fitz's closet, and if he ever decides to give up being a vet, he could totally open the most awesome costume hire shop in the state of Queensland. As I search for the specific shirt he asked me to find, my eyes roam over a greatest hits collection of the outfits he's worn over the years—a bright-yellow banana suit, a full-body inflatable T-rex costume, a couple of disco ball helmets, a plush giant cheeseburger, a walking vending machine complete with transparent plastic windows showing faux snacks inside, and it goes on…

I let out a low whistle.

I knew these outfits from his videos, but seeing them all lined up is something else. He's amassed an impressive collection since he started posting videos online back when Tumblr was still a thing. Being good-looking, charming, willing to act a fool, and spotlighting injured animals and cute Aussie wildlife helped him build up a small but loyal following.

And then the bloody panny hit in 2020, and with everyone locked inside baking banana bread and trying not to lose their minds, his TikTok really took off. He went from a few thousand followers to amassing hundreds of thousands in less than a year.

He loves doing these videos, and I couldn't be happier for the world to get a glimpse of the awesomeness I'm lucky enough to experience close up and in real life every day. He may not have set out to become an influencer, but he brings fun and joy and light into people's lives. And in the hellscape we're living in today, that's a precious gift.

My eyes land on the shirt he asked me to find.

"Here you go." I place it on his bed, graphic side up, and smile. Aussie Vets Do It Better.

He stops blowing on his fingertips. "Thanks, mate." The timer on his phone starts ringing. "That'll be my hair." He carefully picks the shirt up—I guess his nails aren't dry yet—and goes to shower the hair dye off. "You know, I have a spare shirt in your size if you want to step out from behind the camera and join me."

"Ha! Not gonna happen." I laugh as he disappears into the bathroom.

It's not the first time he's asked, and I'm sure it won't be the last, but it's clear who the star of this friendship duo is, and it ain't me.

I'm a behind-the-scenes guy. The man behind the man. Sometimes he'll wrangle me into wearing a silly shirt to match him around the clinic or around town. That's fine. Posting shit online for billions of people to see, though. Yeah, pass.

Hmm. Maybe I am a little uptight.

Probably comes from being brought up in a home where sharing thoughts and feelings was pretty much off-limits. It was Mum's way or the highway, and if I ever spoke up, there'd be consequences. Her go-to punishment was icing me. I fucking hated enduring days of her silent treatment. I'd always cave first and apologise, even if I wasn't in the wrong, just to get it over with. Eventually, I learned to keep my mouth shut. It was just easier that way.

No surprise then that Mum and I aren't particularly close these days. She has a tendency to treat people like shit, and I have a tendency to call out people who treat others like shit. Not exactly a recipe for a close and happy family.

While Fitz is showering, I fiddle around with the ring lights and tripod stand. It's a pretty simple shoot today. No dancing, no outdoor setting, no unpredictable urinating koalas to contend with, just Fitz and Tilly, his adorable, fourteen-year-old Border Collie.

I walk over to her sleeping on her bed in the corner of the room. "Hey, Miss Tilly. You ready to get your influencer on?"

She makes regular appearances in Fitz's videos, and people love the leave me the fuck alone vibes she gives off.

Her deep chocolate-brown eye opens, and she smiles groggily at me, her mouth parting open just a little. I give the old girl a few pats. She's had a tough life. Fitz adopted her when she was eight. She'd been abandoned after getting hit by a car, which led to her losing an eye. But she's a trooper, and despite her advanced years, her sleek black-and-white coat, though grizzled around the edges, still shines.

I'm crouched down beside her, scratching behind her ears, when Fitz comes back in, freshly showered. "What do you think?"

I stand and spin around and whoa… What do I think?

I think Australia's gun laws aren't tough enough because the way his biceps bulge in that tight Aussie Vets Do It Better shirt should be i-fucking-legal.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, so I lift my gaze as he points to his head. "I mean my beard and hair. How does it look?"

Oh.

He means the shock of newly dyed neon green on top of his head that I somehow missed because I was too busy checking his fine-as-heck body out.

Shit.

"It looks great," I mutter, heat rising up my neck. "I might need to adjust the lighting, though, to, uh, colour correct."

Colour correct. Yeah. That sounds like a real thing…right?

I make a beeline for the ring light, which has everything to do with being dedicated to ensuring this video is lit up correctly and nothing to do with trying to ignore the fact I just openly ogled my bestie.

"You okay, mate?" he asks, guiding Tilly into position.

I stop adjusting the tripod and force a smile. "Yep. Couldn't be better. You ready?"

He eyes me for a moment longer then bobs his head. "Sure. I'm ready."

"All right." I settle myself behind the two phones I've set up. "Let's create some viral magic."

The shoot goes great.

Whoever said you shouldn't work with animals has clearly never met Tilly. She veers between calm, cute, and attitudey as required. Helps that it was a pretty simple video—a guide on how to check your dog's ears properly. Granted, not the most exciting topic in the world, but an important one.

Will it earn as many views as the one of Tilly chasing Fitz when he was dressed up as a giant steak bone? No. Or his Aussie Animal Dance Off challenge where he mimicked the movements of various animals—the emu strut and kangaroo hop were particularly memorable—and asked his followers to duet the video and show their best animal dance moves. Or the Outback Rescue Adventures montage we shot together where he shared short clips of some of our wildlife rescues, like the time we helped a koala cross a busy road and when we treated an injured wallaby who'd been attacked by another animal.

Probably not.

But if this video encourages even one dog owner to check their dog's ears properly, that's a win in my book.

What can I say? I'm a nerdy vet who's passionate about proper animal care.

"Wanna stay for dinner?" Fitz asks as I pack away the recording gear.

"Nah. I should get back to Gramps," I reply without looking up.

"How's he doing?"

The old man had a stroke last winter. It's the reason I moved in with him. He's made a full recovery, but he's eighty-one years young, and I don't like the idea of him living in that big house by himself, given all the upkeep it needs. He's on doctor's orders to slow down, but as if he'll start listening to anyone now.

"He's good. As stubborn and fiercely independent as ever."

Fitz smirks. "Must be something in the Landers' gene pool."

I chuckle. "Who, me? Stubborn?"

I finish stashing the gear under his bed and scoop up the phones to take with me.

Fitz glances at my hands. "What are you doing?"

"Last day off tomorrow, so I'll edit the video for you."

He steps in closer. "Mate, thanks, but you don't have to do that. I can take care of it."

I brush past him. "But you want it to look good, don't you?"

"Fucker." He smacks my arm, grinning. "You sure?"

"Positive."

He walks me to the front door but doesn't open it. "Listen. Before you go. I know I'm nagging, but are you sure you're okay with everything?"

"And by everything do you mean my girlfriend dumping me while I was still on my knee proposing to her or waking up the next day to discover I'm married to my bestie?"

Fitz grimaces, scrubbing his hand up and down the side of his face. "Either? Both?"

Truth is, there's a third option of fuckery I'm dealing with that's related to the two things he just mentioned but also dwarfs them both—my feelings for him.

But I am most definitely not ready to discuss that.

"I'm on my way to being okay," I answer slowly.

He raises an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm still processing on Muir time in the Muir way."

"Okay. Let me see. What is it now? February. So I'll check back in with you…next year?"

"Actually, that doesn't sound too bad." He rolls his eyes and sighs, so I give him the best answer I can. "I'm working stuff out in my head. The most important thing is we're still good, and the world hasn't ended."

"Good to see you focusing on the bright side."

"Always," I reply, my tone dry.

He opens the door for me. We hug briefly, and then I leave, an anxious energy thrumming through me on the short walk back to Gramps's place.

A bit of fresh air might be good for me.

Ever since we returned, Fitz has been checking in with me a lot, asking how I'm feeling about what went down on the Goldie.

It's nice he's being so thoughtful, but it's also uncomfortable because it's forcing me to deal with feelings I'd rather keep buried. It's also stirring up all sorts of random memories.

Things like how a few months ago, when Maisey and Erin went away for a girls' weekend, I was more excited to hang with him than upset about missing my girlfriend.

Or how despite seeing each other almost every day at work and texting and messaging each other outside of work, we never run out of shit to talk about.

Or the way my eyes automatically dropped to his arse as he walked away from the bed we woke up in together the morning after we got married. I've seen his butt before. We've gotten changed in close quarters plenty of times, so there's nothing new about that. But there was definitely something new in the way my body responded.

Let me just say, if there's a bad time to be wearing a cock ring, which has the primary purpose of making an erection harder, bigger, and last longer, that was most certainly one of those times.

Then there's what Maisey said… "I'm not the one you want to spend the rest of your life with."

Or that random dude at the gay bar… "And when did you fall in love with him?"

Not to mention the years and years of knowing smiles my friends think I don't see but do, and the hushed whispers around town.

It's all pointing in one direction, and I feel like I'm losing the battle to keep a lid on all of it. Good thing, then, that I'm just as stubborn as my grandfather and perfectly content to stick my head in the sand rather than deal with shit I'm not ready to deal with.

Gramps's place is only a few streets away from Fitz's and just a few blocks off the main street of Scuttlebutt, which also means it's a handy short stroll to the clinic for me. It's a beautiful old pastel-blue Queenslander. The classic timber facade is adorned with intricate white latticework and wide verandas, though the peeling paint and overgrown garden are a reminder this place needs constant TLC. A beauty, but ripe for restoration.

I know for a fact my mother can't wait to get her grubby little hands on it the second Gramps passes. Another point of contention between us. But hopefully, I won't have to deal with that shitshow for a few more years at least.

I unlatch the front gate and let myself in.

"When do you go back to work again?" Gramps asks across the dining table while we eat dinner.

I finish chewing my steak. "Why are you asking?"

"Because you've been a bloody misery guts ever since you got back from the Goldie, and I'm sick of looking at your sour face."

"Gee, thanks."

"I just hate seeing you like this, mate." He softens his tone a bit. "What's the matter?"

I look up at his weathered skin, deeply lined from decades of sun and wind, his still-thick silver hair—please let hair genes be another thing I get from him—and his piercing blue eyes.

I trust the old fella completely, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him everything when I got back, so I gave him the key lowlight takeaways of what happened. I told him about the proposal from hell and Maisey dumping me, how the same thing happened to Fitz, the massive bender we went on, and the mother of all hangovers we faced the next morning.

I deliberately didn't tell him about the whole oops, Fitz and I accidentally got married debacle because, well… I guess that's not a lowlight for me.

"Is it Maisey?" he presses. "Have you heard from her?"

"Actually, yes. I mean, no, I'm not in a funk because of her, but yes, we did speak. She called yesterday."

"And?"

"It was…fine. We clarified a few things."

"Oh yeah?"

That's Gramps's way of asking what sort of things without having to actually say the words.

Fuck it. What have I got to lose? I sure as shit can't tell Fitz what she said, Wilby's plate is full with wedding plans, Linus is swamped with running the clinic, and I don't know Ryde well enough yet to confide in him.

I look across the table into the familiar blue eyes of possibly the only person in my life who loves me unconditionally. Despite his prickly demeanour, he's actually an old softie and not the least bit judgemental.

I blow out a breath through my nose. "Maisey told me the reason she couldn't marry me is because she thinks I'm in love with someone else."

Gramps frowns, his eyes narrowing. He clearly doesn't like hearing I might have cheated on her. "Who?"

"I'm not in a relationship with anyone else," I clarify. "But she reckons…Fitz."

"Oh."

I avert my gaze, feeling hot and breathing heavily. It's one thing to have heard her say it and another thing to say it out loud myself. It shifts it from being words down a phone line, or thoughts clanging around in the back of my head, to something real.

Gramps is silent. Uncharacteristically so. He's probably in shock. I bite the bullet, suck in a breath, and look his way.

I'm met with a grin.

Not just any grin, though.

The biggest, smuggest, shit-eatingest grin I've ever seen.

"Are you having another stroke?" I ask.

He erupts into a deep, rusty laugh. "No, mate. No, I'm not."

I have no idea what's wrong with him. I thought he'd at least show some surprise when his straight grandson said his now ex-girlfriend is claiming he's in love with his also straight best friend. That's quite the bomb to drop over a Tuesday night dinner.

He eyes me with amusement.

"Well, are you going to say anything or just keep grinning at me like a creepy older fucker?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"How about a reaction to Maisey's comment?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "I've always thought she's a smart, very observant young lady."

My temples start to pulse. "What does that mean?"

"Are you being stupid on purpose? It's pretty bloody obvious you and Fitz have a…special connection."

"Well, yeah. We do. We're best friends."

Gramps lowers his head, all joking gone, replaced by a serious look on his face. "Is that all?"

"I…" Heat crawls along my skin, and I don't know where to look.

"Would you like for there to be something more?" he presses.

I focus on what's left of my dinner on my plate and shrug. "Dunno."

A beat passes.

"Have you told him?"

I look up. "Told him what?"

"How you feel?"

"And say what? I don't even know how I feel."

It must have come out more gruffly than I wanted because Gramps lifts his hands in front of him. "Okay, okay. I'm just wanting to get up to speed. No need to bite my head off."

"Sorry," I mumble. "This is all just new to me. This time last week, Fitz and I were in his bedroom"—Gramps's eyebrows shoot up—"making plans for the double proposal. Geez," I explain quickly, ignoring the grin that's back on his lips. "And now, I'm sitting here with you actually contemplating whether or not I'm in love with my best friend who I'm accidentally married to."

"You're what?!"

Oh, shit.

Abort, abort, abort.

"Uh…"

"You and Fitz are married?"

"Well, yeah."

Gramps gets up so fast his chair makes a loud screeching noise against the lino floor. He leaves the room without saying a word.

Where the fuck is he going?

I follow him as he walks into the kitchen, opens the back door, and wanders down the steps into the backyard.

"Gramps?" I call out, but he ignores me.

I jump the few steps in one go and trudge through the grass in bare feet behind him.

My heart thumps in my chest. What is he doing? This can't be good. Do old people go outside to have strokes? Is that what's happening here?

I try to recall where I've left my phone in case I need to call an ambulance when he reaches his favourite tree in the backyard, a grand old eucalyptus tree.

"Gramps?"

He ignores me but spins around so I can see his face. No obvious signs he's having a medical episode.

I stand frozen as he raises his arms overhead and starts…dancing?

He's got a huge grin on his face, and his steps are light and quick, feet kicking up like he's dancing to some music only he can hear. Every now and then, he throws in a little spin, a wobble of his hips, hands lifting towards the sky, moving like he's fifty years younger.

My brain scrambles to make sense of it. How did we go from me telling him Fitz and I are married to witnessing what could possibly be used as an audition tape for Australia's Got Talent?

Kooky talent, sure, but the old man is bringing out all the moves.

He finally stops dancing, lets out an almighty "You little ripper!" and then straightens, squaring his shoulders.

His eyes meet mine, and I haven't seen him this happy in yonks. He stomps over to me and throws his arms over my shoulders. "Mate, this is the best news I've heard in a long time."

"Gramps, what is going on? You're acting more deranged than normal."

He pulls back, his blue eyes alive and sparkling. "Let's go inside and have a cuppa. There's something I need to tell you."

We go inside.

He makes tea. I heat up a few scones from Mrs. Mangle's bakery, throwing on a healthy dollop of cream followed by some strawberry jam from a local farm.

We take the tea and scones into the sitting room.

I'm tempted to make a jab about how at his age he really can't afford to drag things out like this, but I refrain. No jokes, I'm eager to hear what he's got to say.

"Go on," he says, taking a sip of his tea.

"No, you go first," I counter.

"I mean go on and get your lame-arse joke out of the way about how I'm an old prick who can't afford to waste any of the precious little time I have left by delaying making an important announcement."

"Gramps. I would never." I take a massive bite of my scone to hide my lie.

He rests his tea on the coffee table and pins me with a serious look. "I've never said a bad word about your mother."

I finish chewing, surprised. I was not expecting a detour into Mumland. "Yeah. I know."

Despite Mum being a complete bitch to him, he's always done everything he could to have a relationship with me. Dad was his only kid, I'm his only grandchild, so you'd think Mum would want us to be close.

Think again.

"And all I've ever wanted is for you to be happy. Whatever that means and however that looks."

"I know."

"Your dad and I had a heart-to-heart the day you were born."

"Oh?"

I didn't know that.

"He was over the moon when you were born. He asked me that should anything ever happen to him, that I'd take care of your mother and you. I assured him that of course I would and that nothing like that was going to happen. But as we know…"

He trails off, the emotion overwhelming him.

I go over and sit beside him and rub his back. "It's okay, Gramps."

He takes a moment to collect himself and continues. "I updated my will after your father was killed to make sure this house went to your mother. I changed that recently."

"Recently?" I frown, not understanding why he didn't change it years earlier. Mum's been a cow to him since pretty much the day Dad died. "Why did you wait so long?"

"Because until I had my stroke last year, I was convinced I was still young." He smiles sadly. "But when I was forced to face my mortality, it woke me up." He grabs my hand and says solemnly, "I don't want that woman to have my house. I want it to be yours."

"Oh."

Some of Gramps's delusion about his age must have rubbed off on me, too, because, despite all my ribbing about his advanced years, I've never stopped to seriously deal with the very real prospect of him dying.

"What are you saying?"

"I've updated my will so the house goes to you, and I told your mother."

"You did?"

He nods.

"And how did that go?"

"About as well as you'd expect it to. She got mad and started yelling. Told me she'd contest it. Argue that I wasn't in a capable state of mind to make the change."

"Oh, Gramps, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You're getting this house."

"But you just said Mum will fight you."

"She can fight me all she wants, that doesn't mean she's going to win."

"I don't understand."

"As you know, I'm good friends with Polly." That's Wilby's grandmother. "She put me onto a friend's granddaughter who's a solicitor. We strengthened the will. Your mother can still contest it. I can't stop her from doing that, but it'll be much harder for her to win."

"What exactly did you do?"

"We put in what's called a conditional bequest. It basically means I can leave my house to whoever the hell I want, but there's a condition attached."

"A condition?"

"Yeah."

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking sheepish.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Gramps, what have you done?"

"Well, you see, the house and all my assets will go to you if you're…"

"Come on. Spit it out, old man."

"Married."

"What?" A bit of scone comes up my throat, and I cough. "Why would you do that?"

He claps my back a few times. "I told you, to strengthen the will."

"And when were you planning on telling me this?"

"At your and Maisey's wedding."

"Oh. Ohhh." Our eyes meet, and now his jubilant reaction to finding out I was married, albeit to a different person, makes sense. "Wait. This means— What does this mean exactly?"

"You been vapin', mate? You're dumb as dog balls tonight. This is perfect. You're married, and your mother won't get her grubby mitts on this house."

"Um, there's just one problem."

"What's that?"

"You're still alive."

"Not for much longer."

I glare at the smiling old fucker. "It's not funny when you say it."

"I disagree. But the point is, by staying married to Fitz, you're guaranteeing you get your inheritance."

"But you still have years left in the tank. I can't stay married to Fitz for that long. He's looking into how we can divorce or annul this marriage."

"Can I offer some unsolicited advice?"

"Absolutely not, but go ahead because I know you will anyway," I say, flopping back onto the couch and stuffing another scone into my mouth.

"Stay married. At least for a little while until you resolve your feelings."

I almost choke again. I manage to pull myself up, and Gramps gives my back a few firm pats until I breathe normally.

I have some tea to wash it down. "That's… No. I… I don't even know what my feelings are."

"There's only one way to find out."

That smug, shit-eating grin is back, and ew… "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Depends." He lifts his chin. "What do you think I'm saying?"

"We are not having this conversation."

"Yes, we are. Come on, mate. Have you kissed him?"

"No. Of course not. Who goes around kissing their friends?"

He lifts a shoulder. "I've kissed a few blokes."

I shift so I'm facing him directly. "Who? When? Why?"

He chuckles to himself. "Geez. I thought you kids these days were more chillaxed about these things."

"Please don't use the word chillaxed again, and tell me, tell me, tell me."

I sit in fascinated silence as Gramps tells me about the few kisses he shared with a soldier while he was fighting in Vietnam. It was before he'd met Grandma, and his girlfriend at the time ended things before he left, so he was a single man caught in a terrifying situation with other guys in the exact same predicament. Apparently, stuff happens.

"Have you ever slept with a man?" I ask. "And a simple yes/no will suffice. No elaboration needed."

"Nah, mate. The kisses were fine and a bit of fun, but truth be told, they didn't really do anything for me." He reaches over and taps my leg. "So what I'm saying is, if you kiss Fitz, at least you'll know whether you like it or not. Whether it does anything for ya."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Life is as simple or as complicated as you want to make it, Muir."

Ha. What do old people know anyway?

The next day, after breakfast and mowing the front lawn so that Gramps doesn't sneakily do it when I start back at work tomorrow, I boot up my laptop and get to work on editing Fitz's video from yesterday.

I soon realise that spending an hour and a half on my bed staring at a screen filled with the image of him in that torturously tight shirt isn't the smartest idea when I'm confused enough about my feelings for him as it is. But I did say I'd do it.

The conversation with Gramps has been playing on my mind all morning. I'm glad I opened up to him, even if I'm not necessarily any more clear-headed about what to do next.

Fitz is exploring options to end our marriage, so what am I supposed to do now? Ask him to delay it for, like, a few years until Gramps croaks?

And while I'm at it, should I just throw in that everyone around me is under the impression that I'm in love with him, and in order to confirm or deny that, I'd like to, you know, make out with him a little?

Yeah, no.

I slide the laptop off my lap and walk over to my cupboard. I reach all the way to the very back and pull out an old photo album. The OG family one from before I was born.

It starts with Gramps and Grandma—who I never met. She died before I was born—when they were dating. And then there's Dad as an infant, a toddler, a kid, a gangly teenager, and finally a young man.

But that's not what I'm looking for. I remember that the last few pages contain a few pics Gramps brought back from Vietnam. I find them, my eyes running over the grainy black-and-white images. I can't get over how young he looks.

In one, he's standing tall in his fatigues, rifle slung over his shoulder, eyes squinting against the harsh sun. There's a distant shot of him staring out at the jungle, his expression unreadable. And then there are a couple of him seated with a few buddies, helmets off, laughing, faces smudged with dirt and exhaustion.

I wonder if any of them are the bloke he made out with a few times.

I have to say, I admire his cool, almost nonchalant, approach to kissing a bloke. Scuttlebutt may be a progressive place, but Gramps is from that generation where men were men. It's cool that some of them are men who were men who kissed other men and it's not a big deal.

Fast forward to now, and it's a pretty big fucking deal for me.

I close the album and let out a sigh.

Maybe Gramps is right. Maybe kissing Fitz would be a good way to find out if my feelings for him have spilled over past the boundary of friendship into something more. Or if I'm even attracted to guys in that way in the first place.

In all my twenty-nine years, I can't say I've ever had a genuine sexual thought about a guy the way I have with women.

But what about Fitz?

I notice things about him I've never noticed about guys before, but that could be because he changes his appearance so often. He's always dying his hair or putting shit on his beard or painting his fingernails. Maybe it's trained me to be on the lookout for whatever his latest thing is?

But how does that explain me checking out his arse on the Goldie? Or noticing the way his biceps flexed in that too-tight shirt he was wearing yesterday?

And if I'm being honest, I've caught myself wondering what it might feel like to touch him, maybe even kiss him, a few times.

But nah. I can't bring up Gramps's idea with him. It'd be too weird. It's going to be hard enough acting normal at work and not saying anything until after Wilby and Col's wedding. I don't want to add this to the mix.

I place the photo album back in the closet and wrap up editing Fitz's video. Once I'm done, I email him the link to our shared drive and tap out a message on my phone.

Muir: Just emailed you the video. #yourewelcome

Fitz: Mate, you're a legend.

Muir: I am.

Fitz: How did it turn out?

Muir: The editing is top notch.

Fitz: Naturally. What about the on-screen talent?

Muir: He's a solid 6.

Fitz: A 6? Wow. That low?

Muir: Ah, yes. I forgot about your fragile ego. Fine. I'll up it to a 7.

Fitz: I'm not too good with the old imperial system, but if we're talking inches, you'll have to keep going, mate.

I stare at the screen for a moment.

I know he's just messing around, but fuck if it doesn't send a spike of my heat shooting up my spine.

Muir: Oh yeah?

I press Send before my brain can wake up and warn me that's the worst possible reply.

Fitz: You fishing for a dick pic, mate?

Muir: No.

Maybe.

Fuck.

No. Definitely not.

Maybe definitely not?

"Stop acting weird," I mutter completely non-weirdly to myself.

Muir: Have a good rest of the day, and I'll see you at work tomorrow.

Fitz: Will do, and thanks again! You still want to keep things under wraps?

I instantly know what he's referring to.

Muir: Yeah. At least until after the wedding. That cool with you?

Fitz: Totally. It'll be tough, but I guess I'll have to restrain myself and not maul my hot AF hubby in front of our mates

Another rush of heat swamps me. What the hell is he doing?

He's kidding, you moron. Like you guys always do because for him, this is nothing more than a goofy misadventure, a byproduct of rejection and too much booze.

I drag a hand through my hair and remind myself to play it cool. I have to.

At least until after Wilby's wedding.