Chapter 26
Ben
Ben wakes up slowly, tangled in sheets and late morning sunlight. Everything aches.
Not sharply. Not like last night. Instead it’s like every joint and muscle is a little annoyed to still be attached to him.
His phone is lit up on the nightstand. A whole paragraph from Pina, concern and affection disguised in snark and exclamation points. His dad’s message, missed from yesterday, reading simply:
Plane just landed. On my way.
And Jackson, of course:
Call me if you’re feeling up to it. Or half-up to it. Or sentient-adjacent. Just want to see your face.
Ben flops back against the pillows and presses the video icon before he can overthink it.
The camera angle is terrible. His hair’s doing something aggressively horizontal, there’s wrinkles from the pillowcase pressed into his cheek, and the childhood bedroom backdrop is not selling the dignity of the moment.
When Jackson appears, it’s like someone cut to a perfectly framed indie-film scene: warm tones, soft lighting, and a man who somehow makes a knit sweater look like high fashion.
“Did you just wake up?” His grin is all sharp delight, eyes crinkled at the corners. “Wait, did you actually sleep in? At your father’s house? Are you even allowed to do that?”
Ben scrubs a hand through his hair and yawns. “Apparently, when you break a bone you have to do something called ‘taking it easy.’” His voice is croaky.
“Who are you?”
“I’m growing as a person,” Ben deadpans. Then, softer, he says, “We talked. Me and my dad. On the way home last night.”
Jackson’s smile gentles. “Yeah?”
Ben shrugs with one good shoulder. Carefully. “Turns out he’d rather have me happy than impressive. Even if that means loafing around all morning dressed like a Depression-era newspaper magnate.”
“Are those pajamas silk?” Jackson leans closer to the screen. “Wait. Are they monogrammed?”
Ben lifts his arm to reveal the tiny stitched BHW on the pocket. “They’re his.”
Jackson practically wheezes. “Oh my God. That’s it. You’ve peaked. There’s nowhere to go but downhill.”
Ben chuckles, winces, and rests his head back against the pillow. “Careful. You’re going to make me laugh myself into a relapse.”
Jackson’s face goes soft again, full of fondness. “Okay, okay. Rest. I’ll stop bullying the infirm. For now. Just… call me later, okay?”
Ben nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The call ends. The phone stays warm in his hand. He lets it rest on his chest for a moment, just breathing. There’s no guilt in the quiet today. No voice in his head telling him to get up, get moving, stop wasting time. He lets himself enjoy it.
Twenty minutes later, his dad pokes his head in holding a tray with a glass of water, a bottle of pills, and a huge white box, steaming at the seams. “This was just delivered for you.”
It’s brunch.
Not just brunch, an event: rye toast, strawberries cut into hearts and dusted with powdered sugar, smoked salmon, soft scrambled eggs, pancakes stacked high, buttery hollandaise, a tiny jar of fancy jam, bacon crisped to perfection, and the biggest cinnamon scone he’s ever seen, still warm in parchment.
He stares at it, awed and stupidly, blissfully happy.
Like an idiot in love. Which, to be fair, he definitely is.
His phone buzzes.
Sorry there’s no prosecco. Figured it didn’t mix well with codeine. But I hope the pancake situation is acceptable.
Another ping, ten seconds later:
So, can I get that quote now?
Ben types back, slowly, one thumbed:
Off the record? You are a very good kisser.
He hesitates for a split second, then adds:
Also off the record, re:syrup dynamics: I do pour. I do get sticky. I do make a mess. Actively. Enthusiastically. And then I clean it up. With my mouth.
In case that’s still relevant to your reporting.
He grins. Let Jackson chew on that for a second.
Ben follows up with a winking face. And a pancake emoji. And then, just for the heck of it, a little fish and a crown. There’s no shame in joy today.
Then he sets the phone aside, picks up a fork, and lets himself enjoy every ridiculous bite.