"Had to put my money somewhere. Combat pay adds up when you've got nowhere to spend it."
"But you—a house? You?" Robin's staring at me like I've grown a second head. "Mr. Never Settle Down? Mr. I Don't Need Permanent Addresses?"
"I never said—"
"You absolutely said that. Before you deployed, when I asked where to send your birthday present. You said home was wherever you laid your head."
"Okay, maybe I said something like that." I shrug, reaching for more naan. "Point is, I have a house now. Three bedrooms, two baths, detached garage."
"A garage," Jason says, and there's something hungry in his voice. Not sexual hunger—or not just sexual. The hunger of a man who loves machines and knows what a good garage means.
"Three bays. Got a lift and everything."
"That's—" He catches himself, clears his throat, tries to sound casual and fails completely. "That's a nice setup."
"You should come see it." The words are out before I think them through. Invitation extended before I can talk myself out of it. "The garage, I mean. If you want."
Robin kicks me under the table, hard enough to bruise. I ignore him.
"Yeah?" Jason's trying to play it cool, but his whole body has oriented toward me. I can see the hope in his eyes, the want he can't hide. "I mean, if you're offering. I don't want to impose."
"You're not imposing. I'm inviting." I hold his gaze, let him see that I mean it. "Tomorrow? Whenever you're free."
"I work in the garage here until five, but after that—"
"Come over after. I'll be there."
He nods, smiling so bright it hurts to look at. "Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow."
Robin kicks me again, harder this time. I meet his eyes across the table and see the warning there, clear as a shout.Don't hurt him. Don't you dare hurt him.
I don't know if I can promise that. Don't know if I'm capable of not hurting him, given who I am and what I'm not able to give. My track record speaks for itself—a string of people I've left behind, used up, worn out with my inability to be what they needed.
But looking at Jason—serving seconds to Vaughn, laughing at something Toby said, comfortable and happy in his element—I can't seem to care about the inevitable damage.
Maybe Robin's right and I'm playing with something I shouldn't.
Or maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of playing at all.
---
After lunch, I help clear dishes.
It's not something I'd normally do—sitting back and letting others handle domestic tasks is more my style. But Jason's in the kitchen washing up, and I want an excuse to be near him.
The kitchen is small, functional. Industrial sink, commercial-grade stove, the kind of setup you'd find in a restaurant rather than a bar. Jason's got his sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water, working through the stack of dishes with practiced efficiency.
"You don't have to do that," he says when I bring a stack of plates to the sink.
"I know."
He takes the plates, careful not to brush my fingers, and slides them into the water. "You're a guest."
"I'm Robin's brother." I lean against the counter, close enough to watch him work, far enough to give him space. "That makes me family, doesn't it?"
He pauses, hands still in the water, soap bubbles clinging to his forearms. "Does it?"
"Seems like it should."
