“Oh.” Warren’s brow creased. “How come?”
“I’m…not in the right headspace. I’ve too many other things going on, and the baton was sort of forced upon me anyway.”
“Right.” Warren’s gaze held his. If Jude didn’t know any better, he’d swear the man lookeddisappointed.And Christ, that hurt more than it should have.
“You want to take it on?” Jude asked quietly. “The captaincy, I mean. Staff like you. Be a good way to, you know… get in with them all.” A night out. A few laughs. New friends in a new town. That’s what Warren wanted. Not to spend time with him. A broken shell of a man drowning in his own past to even reach the sea.
Warren blinked, as if weighing the words. Then he stood. “Giving it up that easy, huh?”
“Not much of a leader anyway,” Jude muttered, looking away.
When he glanced back, Warren was still watching him. And the look in his eyes made Jude’s chest twist. For a heartbeat, he wanted to close the distance between them. To fall into the warmth of someone who looked at him like that and whisperhelp me.But it was futile. Pointless. There was no knight in shining armour here.
“I could help you,” Warren said, voice catching as if there was something underneath the offer. “If you need a hand?”
Jude blinked. Then exhaled sharply. “I just need it gone.”
Warren drew a breath, chest rising. Then, with a quick pivot, he turned his back and jogged on the spot, holding one hand out behind him as if mid–hundred metre relay. The motion pulled his T-shirt taut across his shoulders, those running shorts clinging shamelessly to the curve of his arse.
“Go on then.” He peered over his shoulder, palm open. “Pass the baton.”
Jude startled out a laugh.
Warren waggled his fingers. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
Jude chuckled despite himself, which almost made the tears fall. But he reached over to the plastic tray by the printer, grabbed a pencil, and stepped forward. He slipped it into Warren’s open palm and when Warren closed his fingers around it, his clasped Jude’s in the exchange.
They both stilled.
For a breath. Maybe two.
Warren tilted his neck, holding Jude’s gaze the way he did his fingers. “You sure you’re okay with this?”
Jude swallowed. Then pulled his hand free. “Good luck, Mr Bailey.”
He then left the classroom, flexing his fingers as if he could shake off the memory of Warren’s touch. But it clung stubbornly. God, when was the last time someone had reached for him and meant it? When had someone asked him if he was sure. If he was okay? If he neededhelp?
He pressed his hand to his chest and forced a breath through the tightness.
Maybe he’d passed more than a baton into Warren’s hand.
Maybe he’d given him his hope.
chapter nine
Storm in a Teacup
Warren didn’t see Jude outside his classroom for the rest of the week.
He wasn’t in the staffroom. Nor hanging out at the vending machine. He didn’t even see him lingering at the edges of the corridors where teachers usually hovered with lukewarm coffee and recycled gossip. And when he did catch a glimpse across the playing field or through a rain-streaked window, Jude’s head was always down. The glances were gone. The offhand comments. The half-smiles traded across hallways. The easy banter that had sparked from day one.
Something had shifted.
And, worst of all, Warren missed it. Missedhim.
He’d tried to open himself up to him. Completely breaking protocol. The fundamental rule of maintaining distance had been shattered the moment he’d listened to Jude talk about the prisoners of the castle. What he should have done at that point was file an immediate, confidential report to the taskforce, flagging Jude as a person of interest requiring specialised support. Not open himself up, with subtle hints asking him if he was okay, if he could help him. Whether they’d landed or not.His job was simple, get intel. Not initiate touch. But when he'd felt Jude’s fingers in his passing over that pencil, Warren had wanted to hold on and never let go.
It was instinctive.
