Page 53 of Bi-Partisan

That makes my heart clench. “Darlin’, don’t worry about me. I’m here if you need to talk.”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeats. “Enjoy your lasagna and your night off.” Then, the line goes dead.

I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it for a moment with a frown. I’m tempted to call him back and pry whatever it is out of him, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough over the past five or so months to know that’s not the right move. Actually, what I want to do most is give him a hug and sit with him until he’s ready to talk.

Fuck it, why don’t I? I’ve never shown up at his place unannounced before, but I can give it a shot, right? Worst case scenario, he tells me to leave. Best case scenario, I get to spend my evening with him, eating dinner and snuggling with his cats and (hopefully) him. Before I can overthink it, I push myself off the counter and press the button to cancel the preheat on my oven.

Thirty-five minutes later, I’m knocking on Adrian’s apartment door, with a foil covered metal tray in one hand and a reusable shopping bag with the frozen garlic bread and a bottle of wine I picked up slung over my shoulder. I wait for a moment, then hear the sound of locks clicking.

The door swings open, and Adrian stands there looking adorable, if not a little seasonally inappropriate, in his plaid pajama pants and fuzzy cardigan. He also has a confused furrow in his brow. “Jamie?”

“I come bearing lasagna,” I say, holding up the tray. “Can I come in?”

He stares at me for a few seconds, still looking a little confused, and I’m worried I’m about to encounter the worst case scenario. But then he nods and steps aside.

The tension quickly leaves my shoulders as I step inside. Now that I’m inside his apartment, the sweater in July makes a lot more sense. He keeps it almost like a tundra in here. But I’m mostly used to it since my parents kept the house the same way growing up. I toe off my shoes before heading straight for the kitchen.

Adrian follows me, but stops in the doorway. He watches me for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest, as I set the lasagna down on the stove and start unloading the bag.

“I hope you don’t mind that I still have to cook it. Although, it’s thawed a bit now since I took it out when I got home around five, so hopefully it won’t take as long.” Since he still hasn’t said anything, I set his oven to preheat. “I also have garlic bread, so if you can point me in the direction of a baking sheet—”

“Jamie, what are you doing here?” he blurts.

“Making lasagna,” I say, although it comes out a little more like a question.

“Jamie.”

At that, I turn to face him. “You sounded upset on the phone, but you wouldn’t talk to me. So, here I am.”

He frowns a little. “But why?”

“I care about you,” I murmur.

“But your plans—”

“Being here for you trumps my plans to rewatch The West Wing for the millionth time.”

“You said you had reading you needed to get done.”

“I can do it tomorrow.”

In the time it takes me to blink, he closes the distance and wraps his arms around my shoulders. I let out a quiet hum of surprise, but then I circle my arms around his waist and hold him close. The small part of me that was worried showing up unannounced would be a bad idea is effectively quieted. Based on the way he holds me a little tighter when my hand comes up to cradle his head, it seems like it was exactly what he needed. Although, now that I’m here, I can’t help but wonder why he called me instead of Casey or even Sophie. He said whatever he wanted to talk about was work related, and since she works with him, she’d probably be much better at understanding what has him so bothered.

I’m not going to complain, though. Even if it’s because he’s upset, I’ll take any excuse to see Adrian at this point.

After about a minute, he pulls back a little, but his arms stay locked around my back.

“So do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask gently.

“I essentially lost a patient today,” he says.

My heart sinks. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Well, technically, the patient isn’t gone yet, but they’re a nineteen-year-old cat with renal failure. Their owner has been doing whatever they can to keep them comfortable, but they’re starting to go downhill faster. At their latest visit, their owner asked me…” He pauses for a moment, so I stroke his back to encourage him to continue. “Well, they basically asked me if it was time to let go. And it’s not like I could say yes because that’s not really my decision ultimately, but…”

“You basically told them it was,” I finish for him.

“In so many words, yeah.”

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