Page 19 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“You came here because you needed help,” he continues, softer, because it feels like Ben’s still trying to vanish in front of him. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.”
Ben makes a faint noise of protest, miserable apology written all over his face. “Ishouldbe fine.”
“And you will be,” Jackson says, gentle but firm. “Just… not right this second. That’s okay.”
He stands, crossing to the stereo, offering a wry smile he doesn’t fully feel. “Come on. The wine’s open. The cat’s adopted you. Just stay a while. Let your system catch up.”
Motown Collected is still on the platter from last night, and Jackson drops the needle. Smooth vocals and soft, warm crackle suffuse the room. He tosses Ben a blanket from the basket in the corner.
“It gets cold in here,” Jackson explains, deliberately casual, like the decision’s already been made. “Bad insulation. Cranky radiators. Consider yourself warned.”
Ben doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t argue either. Reluctantly, gratefully, he draws the blanket over his lap. Smokey reappears, purring as she tucks herself against his thigh.
Jackson can’t help but stare a little at the way Ben’s fingers settle on her back, so gently, like he’s afraid to ask too much of anyone, even an aloof, asshole cat. That’s the part that’s going to be a problem.
But he doesn’t push the moment, or try to fill the quiet. He keeps their wine glasses topped off. Flips the record when it ends. Starts the next without a word.
Halfway through the fourth side of the album, Ben shifts, curling toward the back cushions, eyes half-lidded, fingers still tangled in Smokey’s fur. His breathing deepens, the furrow in his brow smoothing, the tight line of his jaw finally easing.
Asleep, Ben looks far too young and far too breakable for the weight he’s been carrying.
Jackson crosses the room and adjusts the blanket over him, fingers brushing the back of Ben’s hand. It’s still curled uncomfortably. He doesn’t pry it open, he just lets it be. Some things need time. It’s the kind of intimate detail he’d usually jot down for color. Tonight he lets it be just a moment.
Jackson eases back into the armchair. He leaves the binder untouched on the coffee table.
This isn’t just a story anymore.
It’s a chance to do something right. To protect someone who needs it. To prove to himself he’s not a guy who just scorches the earth indiscriminately.
The headline, the scoop, Jackson’ll figure that all out tomorrow. He keeps up his watch a little while longer until his own exhaustion hits like a brink. And when Smokey hops up beside him, Jackson scratches behind her ears. “Don’t get attached,” he warns in a whisper.
To the cat.
Mostly.
Wednesday
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 themortifying fact that it was allseen. 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.
