Chapter 14
Ben
Ben wakes to the rhythmic pressure of small, sharp little paws kneading through his shirt like he’s a particularly stubborn lump of bread dough. He cracks his eyes open, meets Smokey’s yellow ones.
“Thanks for the wake-up call,” he whispers hoarsely, reaching up to scratch under her chin. Smokey purrs, pushing into his hand for more. Cats always seem to like Ben. Maybe it’s because he tends to let them make the first move. Maybe it’s just that he perpetually smells like fish.
He sits up, moving her to his lap as he goes. The unfamiliar couch squeaks beneath him, a reminder that this isn’t his home. A nearby bookshelf sags with nonfiction. An antique record player squats in a cluttered corner. Trailing plants spill out from half a dozen mismatched pots.
Jackson’s apartment.
Ben’s stomach flips. Not in that cutesy, butterflies kind of way. More like plummeting down a mine shaft. What did he even say last night?
He suddenly wants to crawl out of his own skin. It’s not the memory or the anxiety or the hyperventilating, exactly, but the mortifying fact that it was all seen. That he let someone see him like that. That he didn’t, couldn’t, hold it together.
Ben drags his fingers back through his hair, drained in that hollowed-out, post-collapse way that hits when the adrenaline finally burns off.
There are dried sweat rings in the armpits of his dress shirt.
His mouth tastes like Smokey slept in it all night.
Turns out panic attack and Pinot Noir are not a particularly pleasant combo.
A fresh wave of anxiety hits. Where’s the binder? How could he forget about it, even for a second?
But it’s there. Right there. Sitting on the coffee table next to him, perfectly intact.
Also next to him: a glass of water, a bottle of Advil, his phone, plugged in with a full charge.
Boots side-by-side on the tray by the door, coat folded neatly over the back of the couch.
All of Ben’s things, helpfully arranged, exactly where he’d need them.
Jackson hadn’t just managed Ben’s rolling disaster last night, he’d done reconstruction.
Ben feels like a pitiful toddler in a grown man’s suit. He should gather whatever’s left of his dignity and slip out before Jackson sees him like this again: pale, puffy-eyed, pathetic.
He throws back two Advil, grateful and ashamed in equal measure. Smokey head-butts his knee pointedly, her patience evidently at its end.
“Sorry,” Ben says. “Probably breakfast time, isn’t it? Let’s see if we can find you something before I go.”
He pads into the kitchen. Jackson’s setup here is…eclectic. Cans of soup beside specialty vinegars. Two identical French presses. An unopened jar of capers. Lucky charms and bran flakes. Ben frowns, trying to decode the alien logic of it all.
He’s turning over a can of paté, debating whether it’s meant for cats or humans, when he registers the sudden silence. Running water being cut off. He doesn’t even get his hand out of the pantry before the bathroom door swings open.
“Sorry,” Ben blurts, standing too quickly. He nearly brains himself on an open cabinet door. “I was just—”
The rest of his apology evaporates at the sight of Jackson in the doorway. Backlit, a towel wrapped loose and low around his hips, Jackson’s still steaming faintly from the hot water, droplets sliding down over his collarbone. Ben stares helplessly, his mouth going dry.
This man guides him through a breakdown, tucks him in, and now he’s just standing there, shirtless and glowy and impossibly composed while Ben’s still over here trying to remember how his lungs work.
“Morning,” Jackson says, like none of this is weird, strolling in with a yawn and a stretch, entirely unselfconscious about being half-naked in front of Ben. “You’re up early.”
Ben, meanwhile, has never felt more aware of his body.
Or how presumptuous he probably looks rummaging through someone else’s cabinets at the crack of dawn.
“Uh, good morning. I was just looking…Smokey was hungry. I think at least that’s what she was um…
telling me.” Smooth. Very articulate. You should always suggest you are having conversations with people’s pets.
Jackson chuckles softly. “Yeah, don’t fall for it. I fed her fifteen minutes ago.”
Ben shoots a betrayed look at Smokey, who flicks her tail, utterly unrepentant. God, even Jackson’s cat is smug.
Jackson leans a hip against a counter. Relaxed. Watching him. Not bringing up last night. Which somehow only makes Ben feel more unworthy.
“Sorry she woke you,” Jackson says.
“No, it’s okay,” Ben insists quickly. “It’s not even that early. I usually get up around now anyway.” He nods toward the stove clock, the digital green numbers glowing ‘4:50.’ “Shift changeover happens at seven. I try to get in before things start moving. Y’know, be visible. Present. Whatever.”
“Ben, it’s five in the morning,” Jackson admonishes gently, pumping lotion into his palm from a bottle by the sink, working it over one elbow, then the other.
The scent of earthy shea butter adds another note to the room’s sensory fingerprint: coffee grounds, bergamot, artemisia. All of it merging together, creating something that he knows is going to summon this image of Jackson every time it hits his nostrils.
“That’s objectively early. Like… monks and overachievers early,” Jackson continues, blithely unaware he’s rewriting synapses in Ben’s brain.
“You’re up too,” Ben points out. “Which one are you? Monk or overachiever?”
“Chronic insomniac,” Jackson admits with a rueful smile. “Trust me, all the good stuff happens after sunrise.”
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
“They’re true,” Jackson replies. “There’s a whole world of decadent late-morning nonsense out there.
Waking up when the sun’s already overhead.
Lying in bed until your spine forgets how to function.
Eating pain au chocolat at eleven with glasses of prosecco and making questionable life choices in broad daylight. It’s practically bacchanalian.”
“Are you trying to radicalize me with brunch?”
Jackson’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “That would be unethical. Even for me.”
“Well I’ll have to take your word for it,” Ben says. “Late mornings weren’t exactly encouraged in my house. My dad considers sleeping past six a character defect.”
“Maybe it’s time to rebel a little.” Jackson winks. Actually, genuinely winks. Ben’s brain promptly malfunctions, just enough for him to completely forget how to hold a casual conversation.
Jackson rescues him gracefully. “Speaking of food, are you hungry? I feel like all you had for dinner was wine.”
Ben’s starving. The last thing he ate was that stale turkey sandwich. “Yeah, I could definitely eat.”
Jackson flashes him a wide smile, easy and real. “Give me five minutes to get dressed, and I’ll take you out to breakfast. My treat.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Jackson says simply, holding Ben’s gaze. “I want to. Besides, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover if we’re going to sort things out for you on the corporate malfeasance front.”
Warmth crawls up Ben’s neck. He isn’t used to being handled this effortlessly. Or liking it quite so much. “Okay. Breakfast sounds good.”
“Good.” Jackson heads toward the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t let Smokey boss you around while I’m gone.”
Smokey winds around his ankles and lets out a meow the second Jackson’s out of view.
It’s definitely bossy. Ben grins, sitting on the cool kitchen tile.
He strokes her silken fur absently, listening to the muted sounds of Jackson getting ready: closet door sliding, hangers tapping, drawers gliding open.
The quiet of the apartment wraps around Ben while he waits. It feels like calm, a reminder that not every place in the world feels on the verge of chaos.
He exhales, head bowed, and just pets the cat in his lap.
Maybe Jackson’s right.
Maybe it is time to rebel a little, against the panic, the pressure, the bone-deep expectation to always hold it together.
Maybe it’s time to stop proving himself by how much he can endure.
There are people in this world who could see him at his worst and still be there in the morning. The very, very early morning.