But it was Jude who broke the silence first once the coach hit the motorway.
“How was your weekend?” He took off his glasses, cleaning them on his jumper sleeve, and Warren tried very hard not to want to gaze deeply into those revealed brown eyes. “Did your cousin let you back in?”
Warren blinked. Right. The lie.
“Ah. Yeah. In the end, she stayed the weekend at his instead.” True. Ish. Naomi had stayed with her boyfriend. She just wasn’t his cousin. She was his ex. “Probably better for my self-esteem.”
Jude slipped his glasses back on, turned to him, brow furrowed. “Huh?”
Warren scratched the back of his neck. “Hearing those noises through the wall… makes me question if I’ve ever done it right.”
Jude’s expression twisted in confusion. “With your cousin?”
Warren let out a startled laugh, realising the Freudian slip. “God, no. I meant women. In general.”
Jude looked away. “Right.”
Shit.
Warren cursed under his breath, too quiet to carry.
He hadn’t meant it to sound like a confession. Or worse, some straight bloke faux flirting with plausible deniability. That wasn’t his style. He didn’thavea style, not with this. Because, no. He didn’t want to “play gay.” That was the grey area. The bit he never quite got right. Officially, he was straight. Always had been. Long-term relationships with women. Box ticked. Easy enough to write off anything else as part of the job.
But therehadbeen something else.
A few years back. Deep cover gig in Birmingham. A gang leader who didn’t trust men who said no to a drink, a hit, or a bloke. One of those tests. A moment where Warren either stepped up or blew everything. So he went along with it. With him.
Didn’t love it.
Didn’t hate it, either.
And he enjoyed it enough to pass.
That didn’t mean he was “playing” anything. Not then. Not now.
He didn’t like labels. Never had. Bisexual. Heteroflexible. Curious. Whatever word people wanted to throw on it, it didn’t matter. He… went with what made sense in the moment.
And right now?
Jude Ellison didn’t make any fucking sense.
But this wasn’t about sex. This was about the way Jude made him feel like a bloke with nerves again. As if every word might land wrong. As if touching someone could blow up in his face. Warren had spent years training himself to walk into volatile rooms with a smile and walk out with a signed confession. Sitting next to Jude on a school coach felt more dangerous than any surveillance op Warren had ever been on.
And he might’ve just shut a door without realising.
He stayed quiet. Even though everything in his training screamed at him to push. Gently. Subtly. He should pick up the thread. Ask about Jude’s weekend. Prod the edges. Wait for the lie, the tell, the trace of something hidden.
Heshoulduse the opening.
But he didn’t.
Because deep down, he didn’t want to force it. Didn’t want to risk spooking Jude. Didn’t want to watch him retreat again. Didn’t want tobethe reason he did.
So he turned his head, looked out the window, and said nothing.
Beside him, Jude rifled through his bag, pulled out a stack of marking, and set to work as if nothing had been said at all. As if Warren hadn’t already failed the quietest test of trust.
The coach rumbled on.
