Page 23 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
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 theyaresloppy, 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 hethoughtmight happen, what hewantedto 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 waitressbefore 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.
Ben stays so hyper-focused on his breakfast that, a few minutes later, he doesn’t even notice someone approaching the table until a voice booms out.
“Morning, sunshines!”
He startles, glancing up to find a guy with decidedly himbo energy looming above them with a coffee pot in hand. Ben’s pretty sure he’s seen him around the weight room at the gym. The name tag on his apron reads ‘Billy,’ and he tops off Jackson’s mug without asking.
“Didn’t expect to see you out this early, JJ.”
JJ?
Jackson lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Morning, Billy.”
Billy gives Ben a quick once-over, then grins at Jackson, overly curious, just a little too perceptive. And that’s when the realization hits Ben: the hour, his uncombed hair, the rumpled clothes. He probably looks exactly like someone who spent the night.
Which, technically, he did.
Next to him, Jackson doesn’t seem the least bit bothered.
Billy’s grin swings back toward Ben, sunny and unrelenting. “Morning, new face. I’m Billy.”
“Ben,” he says, aiming for polite. It doesn’t quite clear the bar.
“Nice to meet you, Ben. Any friend of Jackson’s is welcome here.” Billy’s emphasis onfriendcontains about five layersof implication Ben is too flustered to correct. Billy barrels cheerfully onward before he can even try.
