By the time he signed himself out, it was close to midnight. The corridors were empty, the hum of the vending machine echoing louder than footsteps. He got in his car, drove on autopilot, headlights carving through the sleeping town until he turned onto Ashworth Drive. The marked car parked opposite was something, at least. Proof Patel was serious about keeping Jude safe. If word had already reached Radley’s line that Callum was in custody, and Jude had given a statement against him, then Jude was a target. Silencing him would be simple. Efficient. That was reason enough for Warren to stay close.
Even if it wasn’t the real reason he was here.
He pulled up alongside the kerb, killed the engine, and stepped into the night air. Cold bit at his skin as he tugged his warrant card from his hoodie pocket, rapped his knuckles on the driver’s side window, and pressed the card flat to the glass. The window slid down.
“Sarge.” The driver gave a curt nod.
Warren crouched to meet him at eye level. “Report.”
“All quiet.”
“Subject inside?”
“Yeah. We’ve had the address covered since nine. Lights went out about an hour ago. No further movement.”
“Good.” Warren straightened, tying his locs back with a band from his wrist, forcing himself into the professional mask. He slid a folded slip of paper through the gap in the window; his number scrawled on it. “You call me directly if anyone, and I meananyone, comes to that door. Don’t filter it through Patel. Don’t wait for chain of command. Straight to me. Clear?”
The constable nodded, wary but obedient. “Yes, Sarge.”
Warren slipped his warrant card back into his pocket and crossed the street, each step dragging heavier than the last. Jude’s house loomed darker than the rest, curtains drawn tight, a shadow hunched beneath the glow of the streetlamp.
He raised a fist. Knocked. Once. Twice.
Then he waited, breath lodged tight in his chest, every second stretching. Jude might not open. And if he did… Warren didn’t know which would be worse: silence, or words. Glancing back at the patrol car, he exhaled, breath fogging white in the night air.
The lock rattled. The door cracked.
And suddenly the fog was gone, because all the air was stolen clean out of him.
The door was barely open an inch, but Warren could still see Jude. All of him. Dishevelled. A crumpled T-shirt and boxers. Settling his glasses onto his nose. Curls unruly, as though he’d just rolled from bed. Warren’s heart stuttered and he couldn’t help the slip of his real voice cutting through before he could pull it back.
“Fuck, you’re cute.”
Jude swallowed, his throat working as he straightened, nudging his glasses higher. He peeked past Warren to the patrol car across the street.
“They’re staying.” Warren shifted into his line of sight again. “Not going anywhere. You’re safe.”
Jude’s gaze cut back to him, eyes sharp behind the lenses. “Am I?”
“I promised you.” Warren widened his eyes in plea. “Said you’d be safe.”
“Yeah.” Jude leaned against the edge of the door, folding his arms. “But I sort of hoped you meant safe from having my heart ripped out. Guess not.”
Warren took the hit. He deserved it. Every word.
“Can I come in?” Warren angled his head. “Let me explain.”
Jude held the pause too long. Enough for Warren to feel the weight of eyes on him from across the street and long enough for the night air to bite his skin. Then Jude stepped back, leaving the door open. Not quite the same invitation as that morning in the shower, but close enough.
Warren stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him and followed Jude into the living room. A tall lamp clicked on, throwing a soft glow over the space. And Christ, he looked even cuter now. The oversized T-shirt hanging almost to his thighs, the faded band logo cracked and worn. Something he’d had for years, maybe since Leeds. Maybe since the streets. A comfort thing. A shield. Warren was probably reading too much into it, but it was easier than facing how Jude stood: arms locked tight around himself, rubbing his own skin for warmth and safety.
“Do you want something to drink?” Jude tilted his head towards the kitchen. “Tea, coffee. Water. Beer?”
“I’d kill for a beer.” The words left too quickly, automatic.
Jude turned towards the kitchen.
