Chapter 15
Ben
Jackson’s apartment is close enough to The Twisted Anchor that Ben would have felt guilty not walking it, even taking into account the winter chill.
It’s a frigid but peaceful morning. And Ben welcomes the quiet, content to take in the sound of their boots crunching, the dark storefronts and the fat flakes of snow drifting down around them.
It’s intimate in a way, the world reduced to just him and Jackson. Jackson, with that sure set of his shoulders, that full, quirked curve of his mouth, that—
“Doing okay over there?” Jackson asks, mild and unhurried, like he’s caught Ben stealing looks but doesn’t really mind.
“Steady-adjacent,” Ben exhales, the words turning visible in the cold. They cross the street before he ventures, a little quieter, “Better than last night.”
Jackson nods, his expression seeming to relax slightly at the acknowledgement. Ben feels the opposite, like his nerves are much too near to the surface. But Jackson closes the space between them on the sidewalk anyway, their coats brushing every few steps.
“You sleep okay?” Jackson asks, slowing slightly as he tips his head back to catch a few flakes on his face. They vanish in his dark hair, melting on contact. “It’s not the most comfortable couch.”
Ben hesitates, taking inventory. He’s wrung out, but that’s not the couch’s fault. “Yeah, I mean... eventually. Jackson, look, I’m sorry for…”
“Saying sorry so much?” Jackson cuts in. “Or for having a bad night? Because neither of those things require an apology, Ben. Definitely not to me.”
It’s said lightly, but the sincerity under the words staggers Ben.
“Come on, I totally lost it,” he counters, reaching for flippant. “You didn’t sign up for that. And then I passed out on your couch like it was the 19th century and my corset was laced too tight.”
Jackson smirks and bites a knuckle. “Are you saying you own a corset?”
“What!?”
“My readers count on me to ask the important questions. Leave no stone unturned, et cetera, et cetera.”
Jackson grins, softer than Ben expects. “Last night was fine, Ben. All of it. At most, maybe warn me beforehand to stock up on red wine next time.” His eyes fill with something dangerously close to tenderness.
The kind of look that could undo a person, if they weren’t careful.
If they wanted too badly to believe in a next time.
Ben looks away before it starts to feel needy.
Jackson’s just being decent. A kind host humoring the emotional wreck who broke down in his living room. Nothing more.
“You don’t have to apologize for being human,” Jackson says, each word deliberate.
Ben shrugs, small and guarded. Jackson wants him to believe it. He wishes he could.
Ben knows better than to get caught betting on long odds.
He learned that calculation from his mother, painfully.
Hope was too expensive, disappointment too devastating.
He withdraws into himself, pulling his coat tight against the cold and everything else he doesn’t want touching him. Jackson lets it lie.
The doors of The Twisted Anchor are a relief. The world warms, at least externally. Jackson reaches over to brush the snow from Ben’s shoulder. It’s over in a second, but Ben feels it long after.
Some needs just don’t go away.
A waitress nods hello from across the restaurant as Jackson leads Ben toward a booth in the front corner.
Ben drops into one side, tugging off his gloves and wiggling his fingers.
He barely has time to process the warmth returning before Jackson slides in right beside him, same side of the booth, hip to hip.
Jackson meets his startled glance with a smile. “Strategic positioning. Easier to talk like this without being overheard.”
By who? They’re the only ones here except for the staff and a trio of monosyllabic fishermen at the counter.
Jackson’s thigh is warm and solid against his. Ben, unraveled and sleep-deprived and hungover and still a little cracked around the edges, feels himself leaning into the contact. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s stupidly perfect and therefore probably a trap.
He pulls out the binder from his bag and sets it on the table with a little too much purpose.
Right then, the waitress swings by the table, notepad and pen at the ready. “Morning, boys. Drinks to start?”
“Tea, please,” Ben says, “with milk.”
“Coffee for me,” Jackson adds.
When she’s safely out of earshot, Ben risks another glance at Jackson. “You know the coffee here is famously terrible, right?”
His laugh is immediate, low and delighted. “Oh, absolutely. Tastes like it was brewed in a tire fire then filtered through an old gym sock. But caffeine is caffeine.”
Jackson angles toward him, voice dropping. “Anyway, I’ve always had a soft spot for things that are imperfect. They’re usually more interesting.”
Ben’s heart stumbles, and he hates how reflexive it is. From anyone else it might be cheesy, but Jackson sells it effortlessly. The flirting might be less about Ben and more about the sport of it.
Ben picks at the peeling menu edge with his thumbnail, trying not to say something defensive or, God forbid, earnest. The waitress returns with their drinks at that moment like a beautiful chain-smoking guardian angel, saving him from himself.
“Ready to order?”
“Mushroom omelet,” Jackson says, handing his menu back. “Sourdough toast, please.”
She turns to Ben with her pen still poised.
“I’ll have the Angler’s Platter: eggs over hard, sausage, hash browns, rye toast. And…” He hesitates, then adds, “the short stack. With maple syrup.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.” The waitress nods and heads off, and Ben doesn’t need to look up to know that Jackson’s watching him.
“What?” Ben says, defensively. “I’m really hungry.”
“Of course.” Jackson’s smile is sharkish.
“Now, important follow-up question regarding that breakfast order… for my readers, of course: when it comes to pancakes, would you say you’re more into pouring the syrup or do you like to be on the receiving end, even if you end up sticky? Personally, I see the appeal of both.”
Ben makes a strangled sound. “Oh my God. Are you always this inappropriate with your sources?”
“I could tone it down,” Jackson offers, in a voice that makes it abundantly clear he has absolutely no intention of doing so.
Ben glares at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Okay. This is a professional meeting now.”
Jackson beams, clearly having the time of his life. “By all means, Ben. Take us there.”
Ben flips open the binder between them a little too briskly. “Here, look. I wanted to show you these waivers.”
Jackson leans in, a small serious furrow appearing in his brow. He’s close enough to read the pages, close enough that their shoulders touch, close enough to make coherent thought evaporate.
Ben tries to concentrate. He really does. But something about watching Jackson’s mind at work is hotter than all the innuendos in the world.
Jackson lifts the sheets toward the light, tilting them.
“No pressure variation on the signatures. And see here? Same loops. Overlay them and they match up perfectly. Copied from a single source.” He taps the margin.
“Nobody signs their name the exact same way twice, let alone across a whole stack of forms.”
He lowers the papers, expression settling into something grim. “Whoever forged these wasn’t subtle; they wanted it on record that you’d signed off. But they are sloppy, and that usually means a paper trail.”
Ben exhales through his nose, sharp. “So what now?”
“Now we figure out who did this. And why. And how to stop them from doing any more damage,” he says, “I start digging, quietly. You keep showing up like nothing’s wrong.”
Ben’s chest tightens. “Yeah right, just go about my day like everything’s normal?”
“Pretend everything is okay,” Jackson corrects softly. “I already know you can do that, Ben.”
Ben’s stomach clenches slightly. “You really think we can solve this before the audit?”
Jackson nods. “I’m good at what I do.” Not bravado, just fact. “And I don’t think you’re the type to let things fall apart without a fight. You’re not built for apathy.”
Ben doesn’t know how Jackson keeps doing that, naming the parts of him he tries to keep buried, reframing them as something worthy instead of flaws to be hidden.
“That’s… yeah,” Ben says, voice uneven. “That’s true.”
Jackson’s fingertips brush lightly over his on the page, testing.
The contact is barely there, but it crackles through Ben like a spark catching dry tinder. Jackson’s eyes flick to Ben’s mouth, just for a heartbeat, enough time for Ben’s mind to race with the possibilities.
Ben’s breath stalls. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t lean forward. He just holds perfectly still, his body tuned to the electricity of that touch.
Then a loud clatter from the kitchen snaps the moment in half.
Jackson’s hand slips back to his coffee mug like nothing happened. Ben’s palm rests where it was, fingertips tingling. He doesn’t even know what he thought might happen, what he wanted to happen. And maybe it was nothing; he’s open to the possibility of an overactive imagination.
Ben turns to look out the window, trying to calm the hammering in his chest. But all he sees is Jackson’s reflection next to his, all he feels is Jackson’s warm thigh still pressed against his own.
He smells the fried eggs before he sees them. Ben twists over the back of the booth, trying to take the platter from the waitress before she has a chance to set it down, half extremely hungry, half desperate for a distraction.
She looks deeply bewildered, still holding on. “Plate’s hot.” The plate isn’t the only one; so is Ben’s face, his body, all of him.
It makes the moment far more awkward than it has any right to be, both Ben and her guiding the plate down in front of him. He doesn’t dare look at Jackson. He can feel him laughing.