Jack doesn’t yank away from my touch, instead covering my hand with his. A flush of something hot and dangerous curls inside my gut. He leans in closer to me, our shoulders pressing together. My skin feels like it’s burning at every point of contact.
Anything I could say right now wouldn’t be enough to encompass how thinking about Jack’s pain, his grief, and the cruelty with which he was treated for most of his life makes me feel. The absolute fury it inspires. The sorrow I’ve absorbed into myself and mingled with my own, so I can no longer separate what hurts him from what hurts me.
It seems bizarre that I’ve become so connected to Jack in the short time we’ve known each other. But I could no more deny that connection than I could the existence of his hand on mine.
When I lean in just that little bit closer, Jack allows it. His eyes practically glow with a yearning for action. He moves his hand, running it up my arm until he grasps hold of me again, just above my elbow. His hold is tight, almost to the point of pain. But I know he’s too careful with his strength to hurt me by accident. No matter how out of his mind with want or anything else, and despite what he thinks of himself, I’m certain Jack isn’t the sort of man to hurt someone if he can help it.
That’s what makes him different than the other people who work for OI. He’s not a monster. They might have tried very hard to make him one, but they failed. He doesn’t belong to them. He was never theirs, not completely. Because part of him was always Dan’s.
Our faces are so close, bare inches separating his lips from mine. Heat pools in my gut. I can feel his warm breath on my face, smell the faint trace of spice from our meal.
Just as it seems one of us, probably me, is about to bridge the small divide remaining, my mother interrupts us by tromping down the stairs. She blows past the kitchen in a fresh outfit and stinking of expensive perfume. I heard her moving around earlier, but I was hoping she would just take a shower and then go back to bed or maybe come down for something to eat.
Before I can get out of my seat and call out to her, Mum is opening the door and leaving.
“Leo, I’m going out!” she shouts to me, inviting no argument. “See you tomorrow, maybe.”
Then she’s slamming the door closed behind her; like a gust of wind, she’s here and gone again in seconds.
A blanket of awkwardness settles over the kitchen, the moment between us dissolving. Jack and I pull apart, disentangling ourselves from each other. Jack gets up from the stool, distancing himself from me both physically and emotionally. He won’t meet my eyes even when I purposely try to catch his, making his position clear.
Whatever that was about to be is over before it began, and I should be so much less disappointed than I am.
For something to do, I gather up our empty plates and go to swill them off before placing them in the dishwasher.
Jack doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
When I turn around, Jack is on the floor next to King, brushing a hand down his back as King pants away, oblivious to the tension. I’m glad for the buffer even if it is frustrating to feel so off-balance from something that didn’t even happen.
“He needs a walk,” I tell Jack, like it’s an olive branch. “We could take him out. If you’re sticking around, I mean.”
I half expect Jack to say he’s going back to base, and of course he isn’t going to stay and walk my dog with me,why the hell would I do that, Leo?
Fuck. The last thing I need are my insecurities to play up in relation to Jack, in a romantic sense.
But Jack turns around to nod at me.
“Okay. Where’s his lead?”
King started yapping excitedly the moment I said the word “walk.” When Jack adds the extra buzzword “lead,” he practically poos himself.
“It’s in the entryway cupboard.” I leave the kitchen to go grab King’s lead myself.
King chases after me, nails skittering against the wood flooring. He plops himself in front of me as I take his lead out of the cupboard and then bend down to hook it onto his collar.
It’s mild out, so I forgo putting my jacket back on.
Jack joins me at the door, and I hand over the lead to him. He takes it like someone else would a gift and lets himself be tugged out of the house when I open the door. King goes full pelt, speeding along on his stumpy legs down the driveway.
I close and lock the door behind us, striding to catch up with my partner and my dog.
As if by spoken agreement, Jack and I don’t talk much during the walk. We take King to the dog park, where I get to watch Jack play fetch the stick with him for almost two hours. Somehow, Jack never seems to get bored or annoyed with King for only chasing after the stick around half the time, forcing Jack to go collect the stick himself the other half of the time. Which he does, without a single complaint.
He doesn’t even seem to mind when King jumps into a massive, muddy puddle from when it rained earlier and then jumps all over him, leaving dirty paw prints and patches of dampness behind.
Jack seems to possess a scary amount of patience. A patience he hasn’t displayed before with anyone else.
King has obviously used his superdog powers to ensnare and bewitch Jack. It’s hilarious to witness. And although I would only admit this under direct fire, it’s also really sweet. I don’t think anyone, even Anabelle, would believe me if I said the terrifying assassin Jack Roth has gone soft over my corgi.
