“Only on Tuesdays.” Jude took a sip of his drink, the humour fading a little. “Still… they taught me resilience. And the value of sleeping with a knife under the pillow.”
He didn’t mean to say it. Or for it to land as dark as it did. But Warren didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh either. He kept looking at him. As if he understood exactly what wasn’t being said. And Jude felt something warm unfurl in his chest.
Like maybe, for once, someone actuallydid.
Jude stared at his plate again. “Is this part of your PT qualification?”
“What?”
“Getting people to say too much.”
“Only the ones who have a talent for dodging eye contact.”
Jude blinked. Then glanced up. Met his gaze.
“Gotcha.” Warren smiled.
Jude snorted. “You’re a knob.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Jude narrowed his eyes. “Which occupation is that?”
“Professional nosy bastard. PE teacher when wearing the shorts.”
Jude didn’t mean to laugh. Not properly. But it escaped anyway. Quiet. Breathy. The sound of something old and rusted creaking open.
“Right,” Jude said. “Because they’re so different.”
“It is when I ask about your glutes forcurriculumpurposes.”
Jude rolled his eyes. But he didn’t look away. That was the problem. He hadn’t dodged the eye contact, and Warren wasn’t breaking it. That quiet, deliberate stare wasn’t confrontational. Nor was it too intense. But it was… unwavering. As if he saw more than he should and wasn’t afraid of any of it.
“Sounds like you’ve had a journey to get where you are.” Warren cocked his head. His voice was calm, but there was something behind it. Curiosity, maybe. Or care.
Jude gave a shrug, eyes on the tabletop. “Hasn’t everyone?”
“No.” Warren shifted forward, broad frame filling the space across from him. “Most of us have someone flipping that coin for us. You? Sounds like you flipped your own. Twice. That’s brave as hell. Starting over like that.”
“Or what most people call running.”
“Running’s fine.” Warren dipped to get in his line of sight. “Depends whether it’s away or towards.”
Jude looked away. Blinked. Swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat.
He hated how kind it sounded. Howtrue.
Then Warren reached out across the table. Not sudden. Not pushy. A quiet gesture. A hand, palm-down, resting gently over Jude’s.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. “It’s alright. I didn’t mean to—”
Jude jerked back. Instinctively.
“Whoa! Fuck. Sorry!” Warren pulled back, raising his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t…shit. I didn’t mean…”
But Jude couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear anything over the roar in his ears telling him to get the fuck away. Adrenaline tore through muscle and memory, his vision tunneled, and he shook. Visibly. Involuntarily. His hands were icy, his stomach churning as if he'd swallowed gravel.
No. No. Not here. Not now.
