Chapter Nine Dead Air #3
Jake stilled. And for a second, the hammer rested loose in his hand.
He looked down properly then, rain dripping from his lashes, hair hanging heavy around his face.
And God…those eyes. The rawness in them caught Harrison off guard.
It wasn’t bravado. Nor flirtation. It was far more fragile than that.
As if the roof wasn’t the only thing he was trying to patch over.
Harrison recognised it instantly. Busy hands quieted the mind. Work outran his thoughts.
Rain or no rain, Jake hadn’t come here for the roof alone.
“Down.” Harrison peered up at him through his lashes, dropping his voice into the firm register he used in briefing rooms. “Now.”
Jake held his gaze a moment longer.
Then he nodded.
He moved with the same confidence descending as he had working.
He slid down the slick slates with controlled ease, weight balanced, boots finding grip on wet tile as if rain were merely another element to account for.
His hands found the ladder without looking, and he wrapped his fingers around the rails he’d secured against the wall earlier. Efficient. Certain.
Harrison made the mistake of glancing back.
Rain had turned Jake’s T-shirt into a second skin, clinging to him shamelessly and outlining every shift of muscle as he climbed down rung by rung.
Water traced the curve of his shoulders, the powerful line of his back, disappearing beneath his waistband.
And that arse, rounded perfectly by a set of work trousers, moved with grounded strength, coming from proper work, not gym mirrors.
Harrison turned sharply to the door.
Find the lock. Focus.
The key scraped uselessly in the new barrel. His fingers, steady in interviews, precise at crime scenes, felt thick, clumsy. He tried again. Missed.
Ridiculous.
He could dismantle a lie in seconds. Rebuild timelines from fragments. But this…this simple, ordinary thing refused to give. Then Jake hit the ground. And suddenly he was there. Close.
Too close.
Heat lifted from his rain-soaked skin despite the cold. The scent of slate, damp air, and something distinctly him cut through the morning. Harrison’s thoughts faltered, and the key slipped from his grip, clattering onto the step.
New lock. New key.
He hadn’t used it enough yet. That was all. It needed… lubricating. No. Not that. It needed time. Familiarity. Care and attention and fucking patience.
“You just talking about the lock there, Harry?”
Harrison ignored the ghost of that voice outright as Jake crouched, retrieving the key before he could react.
Then he straightened and stepped in, close enough for Harrison to give ground, and slid the key into the lock in one clean motion.
As if he’d done it a thousand times. As if all doors opened for him without hesitation.
He then unlocked it and pushed it open. “There you go.”
Simple.
Effortless.
Harrison cleared his throat, stepping aside, telling himself it meant nothing.
That it was just a lock. Just a door. But as Jake crossed the threshold, water dripping from his curls and bringing the outside in with him, Harrison had the faint, unwelcome sense that some other things might open just as easily for this man.
He wasn’t nearly as ready for that as his front door apparently was.
Harrison then switched on the living room light and was, maybe fortunately, confronted with a different problem. “Fuck.”
The rain coming in from the roof had soaked through his boxes; the cardboard collapsing in on itself. The carpet was dark and saturated; the bowl he’d left beneath the leak had overflowed hours ago. It was a flood. A real fucking flood in his new living room.
Jake winced, coming up behind him. “Fuck. Sorry. Should’ve come round yesterday morning.”
“It’s fine.” Harrison shrugged out of his coat and dropped it over the banister. “It’s only things.” He knelt by one of the less-damaged boxes, rummaging until he found what he was looking for. Towels. He tossed one at Jake, then stood. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Love a brew, aye.” Jake patted the towel through his hair, curls springing looser around his face. “If you got time?”
“I have time. It’s sort of all I have at the moment.” Harrison retreated to the kitchen before his composure could falter again, then he braced his hands on the counter to exhale.
His pulse raced.
Ridiculous.
He had a missing girl, a compromised search perimeter, and a town poised to fracture, yet he was reacting as if a damp roofer in his hallway were the most pressing variable.
Focus.
So he worked through the boxes with the same methodical focus he’d applied to the search grid at midnight.
Kettle first. Then two mugs wrapped in newspaper.
Then the small canvas bag he’d brought from the rental, containing the tea bags, instant coffee, and sugar folded into a paper twist. And the milk he’d thankfully bought the morning he moved in.
Mundane steps. Boil. Pour. Steep. Breathe.
He then carried the mugs back into the living room where Jake crouched over the damp cardboard, using the towel he’d given him not to dry himself, but to clear the mess on his floor and boxes.
He’d already moved the worst-soaked stuff away from the spreading patch on the carpet and blotted the edges, pressing firmly rather than wiping, drawing water up instead of pushing it deeper.
“You don’t have to do that.” Harrison stood over him, offering him the mug.
Jake peered up. “Sorta feel responsible.”
“For the rain?”
He gave a short huff of laughter. “No. For the roof.” He sat back on his heels, taking the mug from Harrison, and he did not, absolutely did not, feel any reaction to Jake’s fingers brushing his.
“Used to patch it up for the woman before you. Mrs Garraway. Lived alone after her husband died. Couldn’t afford a full strip and re-felt.
” He pointed a finger up at the ceiling.
“Whole thing needs doing properly. New underlay, new battens in places. Ridge line’s soft.
So I kept it weather-tight. Replaced what I could.
Slipped in membrane where it’d hold. Bought her a couple winters.
Never charged her.” He stood and shrugged, as if that were nothing.
“So when she listed it, I told Deacon it was holding. Which it was—for her. Deac left my card for whoever moved in, knowing it’d need doing right.
Said it’d be someone professional. White collar.
Someone with…” He gestured vaguely. “Money.”
“Me, in other words.”
“Aye.” Jake blew gently over the surface of his tea before taking a careful sip. “Rain like last night was always gonna find the weak spots. If I’d known you’d be out on a missing person on your day one, I wouldn’t have left it.”
Harrison watched him a moment. He’d learned more about Jake Whitton in that one conversation than he ever would from a file.
“That was decent of you,” Harrison said finally.
Jake looked up, brow lifting. “What? Getting my estate agent mate to lie to his buyer?”
“No.” Harrison moved to the sofa. Not his, technically; the previous owner had left it behind, but it would suffice until he could get his other stuff from storage.
He’d need to hire a van for that, too. Another thing he needed to sort out.
“Keeping an elderly woman dry without charging her. That says something. Others would’ve taken advantage of that. ”
Jake crossed the room and dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa, careful not to drip on the least-damaged patch of carpet.
“Maybe.” He took a cautious sip of tea. “Still needs doing properly though. I’ll strip that whole section back once it dries out.
New membrane, new battens where they’ve softened.
Flashing round the chimney’s lifting as well.
Could see it from the ridge. It’s a patch job at the minute.
Needs more than that. So I’ll get the bits and do the lot when it’s convenient. ”
Harrison nodded. Practical. Solid. Jake spoke about roofs the way Harrison spoke about casework. Fix the structure, not the surface.
Then Jake’s gaze drifted towards the hallway. “I uh…did knock earlier as thought your wife might be about.”
Harrison blinked. “My wife?”
Jake tipped his chin towards Harrison’s hand wrapped around the mug. To the gold band on his ring finger quietly scraping over the porcelain. Harrison looked at it himself then, too. Then he closed his eyes, took a measured sip of tea, and swallowed past the familiar tightening in his throat.
Then, finally, he said the word he detested more than anything, “I’m a widower.”
Jake’s posture changed at once. He dipped his head, hair falling forward to shield his face. “Oh. Fuck. Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture awkward but sincere. “How long ago did she die?”
Harrison frowned, checking whether the assumption had been careless, probing, or simply automatic. Jake looked entirely genuine.
So Harrison corrected him. “He. Husband.”
Jake blinked, a small recoil from his own mistake. “Ah. Right.” He gave a faint shake of his head, wry resignation settling in. “Guess even we default to the straight setting sometimes, eh?”
The ‘we’ made Harrison smile. It was subtle. Unforced. Jake wasn’t giving an announcement; he was offering a quiet inclusion.
He liked it.
“Heteronormative reflex.” Harrison lifted his mug for a sip. “It’s persistent.”
Jake huffed a soft laugh. “Aye. That.” He stared into his tea for a moment, shoulders easing a fraction. Then he glanced back up. “How long ago did he die?”
“Three years.”
Jake nodded, working that over, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “How—”
“Can we not?” Harrison cut him off before the question could fully form.