Chapter Text
John woke up to the sound of a kettle being stubborn.
Not the aggressive whistle kind of kettle. The other kind—electric, polite, still somehow conveying irritation through a series of faint clicks and a low, persistent hum. It was the sound of someone making coffee like they meant to keep a promise.
He lay still for a moment and listened.
The house had its usual morning noises—the soft settling creak of old wood, a pipe giving a small, sleepy sigh somewhere in the wall—but layered over it was something newer. The clink of a spoon against a mug. The shuffle of socks on kitchen tile. A quiet, off-key hum that wasn’t the house at all.
Bobby.
John stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, and let himself register the simple fact that Bobby was in the kitchen of Bernie’s house without it feeling like an event.
It had been months now—long enough that Bobby had a toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom, long enough that his hoodie had migrated into John’s bedroom closet like it had always belonged there, long enough that the house had started to smell faintly like Bobby’s shampoo on certain mornings. Long enough that John’s body didn’t tense at every sound that wasn’t his.
Long enough that the normalcy had developed teeth.
John swung his legs out of bed and stood, barefoot on carpet, and felt the house under him like it always was—old, solid, stubborn. He paused at the bedroom doorway for half a second, letting the warm smell drift up from downstairs.
Coffee. Toast. Something sweet—cinnamon maybe, or that vanilla candle Bobby had lit last week and then promptly forgotten because Bobby was incapable of letting a thing be merely decorative. Everything in Bobby’s orbit became used.
John walked down the hallway and hesitated at the top of the stairs.
The living room below was dim, curtains still half drawn, early January light filtering in thin gray bands. The framed photo of Bernie and Bruce still faced outward on the sideboard like a small, quiet defiance John no longer questioned every time he saw it. The house looked the way it always looked—seventies décor holding its ground, shag carpet refusing to die.
And in the kitchen doorway, Bobby moved like he’d been part of it forever.
He wore an oversized t-shirt—John’s, stolen months ago and never returned—and sweatpants. His hair was a mess in the honest way it only got in mornings. He was barefoot too, standing with one hip against the counter, mug in hand, eyes narrowed at a piece of toast like it had personally disappointed him.
John watched for a beat longer than necessary.
Bobby looked up and caught him. A grin spread across his face, slow and pleased, like he’d been waiting for John to appear. “You’re awake.”
John’s mouth twitched. “I live here.”
Bobby nodded solemnly. “Yes. And yet. You still wake up like a Victorian orphan discovering the concept of morning.”
John descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen, drawn by the warmth and the smell like it was gravity.
“I do not,” John said.
Bobby held up the toast. “You do. You wake up like you’re about to write a tragic letter.”
John leaned against the counter opposite him, letting the heat of the room sink into his skin. “If I were writing a tragic letter, it would be about your toast.”
Bobby gasped, offended. “My toast is perfect.”
John tilted his head. “It’s charcoal.”
“It’s artisanal,” Bobby corrected.
John snorted softly.
Bobby stepped closer and held the toast toward John’s mouth like an offering. “Try it.”
John hesitated, then bit the edge. It crunched with the enthusiasm of something that had given up on softness. He chewed with exaggerated consideration.
Bobby watched him, eyes bright. “Well?”
John swallowed. “It tastes like you’re mad at bread.”
Bobby’s grin widened. “Accurate.”
John’s chest loosened in that familiar way it did around Bobby—like his ribs were allowed to expand fully without bracing. The ease of it still startled him sometimes. How quickly his body trusted this.
Bobby turned back to the counter and poured coffee into a second mug. Not the chipped one Bernie had used—John had moved that mug to the back of the cabinet like a private relic. This mug was newer, plain ceramic, something Bobby had brought and left because he couldn’t stand drinking out of “depression cups,” as he called them.
He handed it to John.
John took it, the warmth bleeding into his palms. “Thanks.”
Bobby leaned a hip against the counter again, eyes flicking over John’s face with the casual intimacy of someone who’d learned its moods. “You sleep okay?”
John blinked. Not a question. An observation.
“Yeah,” John said, then corrected, because Bobby always noticed the fast-yeah. “Mostly.”
Bobby’s mouth softened. “Good.”
John took a sip of coffee. It was strong, not bitter, the exact kind of coffee that made his brain feel less like static. Bobby’s coffee always tasted like intention. Like someone cared whether you were awake or just vertical.
John glanced at Bobby over the rim. “You’re in a good mood.”
Bobby lifted an eyebrow. “Am I?”
John nodded. “Yes.”
Bobby smiled, unrepentant. “I’m in a mood where I have you and coffee and it’s not raining too aggressively.”
John’s throat tightened slightly at the casual I have you, said like it wasn’t a dangerous phrase. Bobby said things like that sometimes—small claims, not declarations. It always hit John in the same place: the part of him that wanted to be claimed and was terrified of what it cost.
John looked away quickly, as if the coffee needed his full attention.
Bobby watched him for a beat, then, instead of pressing, said lightly, “Also, I made eggs.”
John blinked. “You made eggs.”
Bobby nodded toward the stove where a pan sat covered. “Yes. Like an adult.”
John peered under the lid and found scrambled eggs actually cooked properly—soft, not rubber, lightly salted. It was an absurdly competent thing to do.
John stared. “Who are you?”
Bobby grinned. “I’m domesticated.”
John snorted. “You set toast on fire.”
Bobby waved a hand. “Growth is not linear.”
John laughed softly, and the sound filled the kitchen in a way that made the house feel less haunted and more inhabited.
Bobby set two plates on the table, slid eggs onto them, and sat like he did it every morning.
John sat too, mug in hand.
For a few minutes, they ate and drank coffee and existed in a quiet that didn’t demand to be filled. The house creaked around them. A car passed outside, tires hissing on damp pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a gull called like it was complaining about something existential.
John watched Bobby chew thoughtfully, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed.
This was the thing he didn’t know how to name: the warmth of routine. The way together could become ordinary.
Ordinary was supposed to be comforting.
Instead it sometimes felt like standing on a dock and realizing you’d stepped farther out over the water than you meant to. Realizing you could fall, and the fall would hurt because you actually cared where you landed.
Bobby looked up and caught John staring. “What?” Bobby asked, mouth full.
John blinked and reached for sarcasm out of reflex. “Nothing. Just… amazed you didn’t poison us.”
Bobby swallowed and grinned. “I would never poison you.”
John’s chest tightened. “That’s what poisoners say.”
Bobby leaned forward slightly, eyes bright with amusement. “If I were poisoning you, it would be with something elegant. Not eggs.”
John shook his head, smiling despite himself.
And in that smile, John felt the fear hovering at the edge of the warmth—quiet, persistent, and very much alive.
John stabbed a piece of egg like it had offended him and took another sip of coffee, trying to focus on the simple things: heat, taste, the small domestic choreography of two plates on a table.
Bobby reached for his phone beside his plate, thumb flicking across the screen. His face stayed neutral, but John saw the tiny shift in his eyes—the moment his attention hooked on something that wasn’t breakfast.
John didn’t ask. Not immediately. He’d learned Bobby had tells too, even if Bobby pretended he didn’t.
Bobby set the phone down face-up on the table, screen still lit. John’s eyes flicked to it involuntarily.
LEASE RENEWAL — ACTION REQUIRED
48 DAYS REMAINING
John’s stomach dipped.
He forced his gaze back to his coffee, as if pretending not to see it would keep the message from being real.
Bobby, of course, noticed the flick.
“Oh,” Bobby said lightly, like he’d just remembered. “So. Fun adult thing.”
John’s mouth tightened. “That doesn’t look fun.”
Bobby’s grin sharpened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not. It’s just… a reminder that landlords are creatures.”
John leaned back slightly, trying to keep his voice casual. “Your lease is up.”
Bobby nodded once, picking up his fork again as if this was normal conversation. “Mm-hmm.”
“And they’re emailing you about it like it’s a dentist appointment.”
Bobby shrugged. “Same vibe. They’re like, ‘We haven’t seen you in six months, but we own your bones.’”
John snorted despite himself, then sobered. “What do they want?”
Bobby took a bite of egg, chewed, swallowed. He looked down at his plate like he could eat around the subject.
“Renewal,” he said. “Or… not. But they’re pushing hard on the ‘renewal’ part.”
John’s fingers tightened around his mug. “Meaning.”
Bobby’s mouth twitched. “Meaning rent goes up.”
John felt his jaw clench automatically, anger rising on instinct like it was a reflex. He hated the idea of Bobby being squeezed, cornered, managed by someone with paperwork and power.
“How much?” John asked.
Bobby lifted an eyebrow. “You’re doing the John thing.”
John blinked. “What John thing?”
“The ‘tell me the number so I can fight it’ thing,” Bobby said, not unkind. “It’s cute. It’s also… stressful.”
John’s mouth tightened. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Bobby said gently. “But it’s okay.”
John exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders down. “Okay. Sorry. How much?”
Bobby sighed, then picked up his phone and tapped the email open with exaggerated annoyance.
“Okay, so,” Bobby said, reading as if narrating a horror story, “‘We are pleased to offer you the opportunity to renew.’”
John murmured, “They’re never pleased.”
Bobby nodded. “‘Due to market conditions—’”
John made a noise of disgust.
Bobby continued, “‘We are adjusting your monthly rate accordingly.’” He scrolled, then looked up at John. “It’s a bump.”
John waited.
Bobby shrugged, still trying to make it small with his body language. “Not insane. But annoying.”
John’s stomach tightened. “Annoying can be the beginning of insane.”
Bobby’s eyes flicked to him, appreciation and wariness mixing. “True.”
John forced himself to ask the practical question instead of the emotional one. “Do you want to renew?”
Bobby hesitated just a fraction too long.
John’s chest tightened. “Bobby.”
Bobby set the phone down and leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other like posture could make the conversation less loaded.
“I don’t love the apartment,” Bobby admitted. “It’s fine. It’s… a box with a kitchen that hates me. But it’s familiar.”
John nodded slowly. Familiar mattered more than people liked to admit. Familiar was safety with chipped paint.
Bobby added, voice lighter, “Also my neighbors are weird in a way that’s predictable.”
John snorted. “Predictable weird is a gift.”
Bobby pointed at him with his fork. “Exactly.”
John tried to keep his tone neutral, but the question that mattered pushed up anyway. “So you renew.”
Bobby didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the living room, toward the shelf of figurines that John had collected over the last six months, as if Auburn could tell him what to do.
Then he said, carefully, “I don’t know.”
John’s stomach dipped. “Because of money.”
Bobby’s mouth twisted. “Not exactly. I can afford it. It’s not—” He stopped, then corrected himself, honest. “It’s not just money.”
John waited, throat tight.
Bobby’s voice lowered slightly. “It’s… time,” he said. “It’s the idea of signing another year and feeling like I locked myself into something when everything else is…” He gestured vaguely, meaning John, meaning the relationship, meaning the fact that their lives were now threaded.
John’s pulse ticked faster. “So you don’t want to lock in.”
Bobby’s eyes flicked to him. “I didn’t say that.”
John felt his jaw clench. “Then what are you saying?”
Bobby exhaled slowly. “I’m saying it’s weird to have my lease come up right when I’m… more settled than I’ve been in a long time.”
John’s chest tightened at the word settled.
Bobby’s mouth softened. “With you,” he added, like it was obvious, like it didn’t need a dramatic pause.
John’s throat tightened. The warmth in the kitchen suddenly felt too warm, the air thick with what they weren’t saying.
John swallowed and forced himself to keep it simple. “So what do you want?”
Bobby looked at him for a long beat. His humor door hovered, ready to swing shut or open depending on how dangerous the moment got.
“I want options,” Bobby said finally.
John nodded. Options. William Drake’s word. Marie’s word. Even Bobby’s word.
“Okay,” John said. “Options.”
Bobby’s eyes searched his face, cautious. “You’re not going to—”
“What?” John asked softly.
Bobby’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You’re not going to go full ‘move in with me’ today?”
John barked a small laugh, more relief than humor. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
Bobby lifted an eyebrow. “You were thinking it.”
John opened his mouth to deny it, then shut it because Bobby was right. The thought had been there, bright and terrifying, the moment John saw LEASE RENEWAL. Not because John wanted to rush. Because John wanted to protect. And because protect and possess sometimes lived too close together in his brain.
John exhaled slowly. “I was thinking… maybe there’s a way to make it less stressful,” he admitted.
Bobby’s eyes softened. “That’s the John thing again.”
John’s mouth tightened. “I know.”
Bobby reached across the table and touched John’s wrist lightly—brief, grounding contact. “You don’t have to solve it at breakfast,” he said.
John swallowed. “Okay.”
Bobby withdrew his hand and picked up his coffee again, voice returning to lighter. “We can talk about it later. After you’ve done your ‘saving the bowling alley from corporate vampires’ routine.”
John snorted. “Thanks for your faith.”
Bobby smiled. “Always.”
John’s chest tightened at the word. Again with always. Bobby tossed it around like it wasn’t dangerous.
John looked down at his plate, at the last bite of eggs, and felt the unspoken thought sitting between them like an unopened envelope.
If not your apartment… then where?
John took the last bite of eggs as if swallowing it could swallow the thought too.
Bobby picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the lease email like he might delete it out of spite. He didn’t. He just set the phone back down and pretended breakfast had returned to being normal.
John was about to match the pretense when his own phone buzzed on the table.
Not a text.
A call.
The name on the screen made John’s stomach do a small, familiar twist. JUBILEE.
He stared at it for a beat, then glanced at Bobby, because answering a best friend call while you were half-domestic with your boyfriend in a dead man’s house felt like a sitcom setup.
Bobby’s eyebrows lifted. “Answer,” he mouthed.
John hit accept and put the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
Jubilee’s voice came through loud and crisp, as if she’d been shouting in a courtroom five seconds ago and hadn’t bothered to turn it off.
“John,” she said, “what is your current relationship with vegetables?”
John closed his eyes. “Good morning.”
“It’s ten-thirty,” Jubilee said. “That’s not morning. That’s ‘you’re late and pretending it’s okay.’”
John stared at the ceiling like he could summon patience from it. “Why are we talking about vegetables?”
“Because I care about you,” Jubilee snapped, then immediately added, “and because Theresa says if you keep eating like a raccoon in a dumpster, she’s going to stage an intervention.”
From across the table, Bobby’s eyes widened in silent delight. He mouthed Theresa’s name.
John pointed at Bobby with his fork like a warning: don’t.
Bobby grinned, unrepentant.
John said into the phone, “I ate eggs.”
Jubilee made a disbelieving sound. “Eggs are not vegetables.”
“No,” John said, “but they’re not fries.”
Jubilee paused. “Okay. Progress.”
John’s mouth twitched. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because,” Jubilee said, “I have to file an updated document for the estate, and I need you to sign something, and you keep ignoring my emails.”
John blinked. “I don’t ignore your emails.”
Jubilee’s voice turned sweet, which was never a good sign. “John.”
John exhaled. “Okay. I miss… some of them.”
“You miss them all,” Jubilee said. “Theresa has a spreadsheet.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “Theresa has a spreadsheet about me.”
“Yes,” Jubilee said brightly. “She has a spreadsheet about everything. It’s why society still functions.”
Bobby leaned closer, stage-whispering, “She sounds hot.”
John shot him a look that could’ve started a fire.
Jubilee continued, “Also, I’m going to need you at the Lanes later this week because there’s a thing with the Doug file and I want to make sure you’re not getting soft.”
John’s stomach tightened. “I’m not getting soft.”
“You’re always getting soft,” Jubilee said. “That’s your hobby.”
John’s jaw clenched. “Jubilee.”
Jubilee ignored his tone and barreled on like she was in court. “Anyway, I’m coming by the house tomorrow.”
John froze. “What?”
“I’m coming by the house tomorrow,” Jubilee repeated. “With Theresa.”
John’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.
Bobby’s eyes went huge, delighted. He mouthed, exaggerated, With Theresa.
John covered the mic with his hand and hissed at Bobby, “Stop.”
Bobby mouthed back, Never.
John uncovered the mic. “Why are you coming to my house?”
“Because you keep saying we’ll hang out and then you vanish into bowling alley ownership and boyfriend domesticity,” Jubilee said, and her tone sharpened on boyfriend like she was annoyed she hadn’t been briefed.
John’s cheeks warmed. “You’ve been briefed.”
“Barely,” Jubilee snapped. “I have met the concept of Bobby through your texts and Theresa’s gossip.”
John blinked. “Theresa gossips.”
Jubilee’s voice went smug. “Theresa observes. She calls it ‘data collection.’”
Bobby made a silent choking gesture, laughing without sound.
John said, “Jubilee, you can’t just—”
“I can,” Jubilee interrupted. “It’s a free country and you have a house with three living rooms because Bernie was allergic to minimalism.”
John rubbed his forehead. “Tomorrow is—”
“Fine,” Jubilee said briskly, as if willing to negotiate. “Tomorrow evening. After work. I’ll text you a time.”
John’s stomach did a small flip. The idea of Jubilee showing up with Theresa while Bobby was here felt like a collision of worlds—exactly the kind of thing John usually avoided until forced.
Bobby, across from him, looked way too pleased.
John sighed. “Okay.”
Jubilee’s voice softened a fraction, turning briefly into what she was beneath the sharpness: his best friend, stubbornly present. “Good,” she said. “Also, tell your boyfriend I’m judging his toast.”
John blinked. “How do you—”
“Because you would never burn toast on purpose,” Jubilee said. “Bye.”
“Wait—” John started.
Jubilee hung up.
John stared at the phone in his hand like it had betrayed him.
Bobby leaned forward, eyes bright. “Your best friend is terrifying.”
John exhaled. “Yes.”
Bobby grinned. “And she’s bringing Theresa.”
John glared. “Yes.”
Bobby leaned back, delighted. “I can’t wait.”
John’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
Bobby’s grin softened into something warmer. “Because,” he said, simply, “I want to meet the people who are part of your life.”
John stared at him, the sentence landing gently and hard at the same time.
He looked away, throat tight, and muttered, “She’s going to interrogate you.”
Bobby’s eyes sparkled. “I love an interrogation.”
John shook his head, but the dread in his chest was threaded with something else—something like relief.
Because Jubilee wasn’t letting him compartmentalize anymore.
And part of John—quiet, terrified—wanted that.
Bobby reached across the table and stole the last bite of John’s toast like it was a prize.
John stared. “Excuse me.”
Bobby chewed with exaggerated innocence. “You weren’t eating it.”
“I was,” John said.
Bobby swallowed. “No you weren’t. You were having an existential crisis about friendship.”
John narrowed his eyes. “I can have an existential crisis and eat toast at the same time.”
Bobby’s grin sharpened. “Not you.”
John opened his mouth to argue when his phone buzzed again on the table.
Text this time.
John glanced down and felt his stomach drop before he even read the words, because his body had already learned the difference between “normal buzz” and “something just changed.”
Marie: Inspection moved up. City guy Logan Howlett. 11am. Be here.
John’s throat went tight. The kitchen suddenly felt too warm.
He stared at the screen, reading it twice, as if repetition might change the message.
Bobby’s voice softened. “Marie?”
John didn’t answer immediately. His brain started running through everything it always ran through: What’s broken? What’s not documented? What if they cite something stupid? What if Doug—
He swallowed. “Inspection,” he said finally.
Bobby’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Already?”
John nodded once, eyes still on the screen. “Moved up.”
Bobby’s posture shifted—subtle, but John felt it. Bobby was still relaxed, but he was attentive now. The humor door had swung half-closed.
“Who?” Bobby asked.
John read the name out loud, because names mattered. “Logan Howlett.”
Bobby blinked. “Who?”
John nodded, forcing his breath to stay even. “City guy. Today at eleven.”
Bobby watched John’s face the way he always did when something landed. “Routine?”
John’s mouth twisted. “Marie says ‘routine’ like people say ‘it’s just a little rain’ right before a storm.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “So not casual.”
John exhaled. “Not casual.”
Bobby leaned back slightly and studied John with calm focus. “Okay,” he said.
John stared at him. “Okay what?”
Bobby lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, you don’t spiral.”
John let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s cute.”
Bobby’s voice stayed steady. “I’m serious.”
John’s jaw tightened. “I’m allowed to be worried.”
“You’re allowed,” Bobby agreed. “You’re not allowed to let worry eat you alive at breakfast.”
John stared at his phone again. The words Be here sat like an order. Marie didn’t do optional.
John’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Doug’s going to use inspections,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
Bobby’s gaze sharpened. “You think it’s connected.”
John hesitated. He didn’t have proof. He had instinct and a city that overlapped too well. He chose honesty without certainty. “I think it could be.”
Bobby nodded once. “Okay.”
John looked up, throat tight. “Okay doesn’t help.”
Bobby’s mouth twitched. “It does if we turn it into a plan.”
John exhaled slowly, trying to let the word plan be a railing instead of a trap.
Bobby leaned forward, forearms on the table. “What do you need to do today?”
John blinked. The question yanked him out of the spiral and into action.
“Go to the Lanes,” John said. “Check everything. Piotr’s list. Marie’s list. Make sure logs are updated. Make sure the safety stuff—handrails, lights—”
Bobby nodded, calm. “Good.”
John’s stomach still churned. “And I should tell Jubilee.”
Bobby’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes.”
John stared at Bobby. “You’re really okay with my lawyer best friend ambushing you tomorrow?”
Bobby smiled faintly. “I’m okay with a lot of things, John.”
The softness in his voice made John’s chest tighten again.
John looked down at the text, then typed back to Marie. On it. I’ll be there.
He hit send.
His thumb hovered over Jubilee’s name next, but he stopped.
Not yet. Not in panic. Not before he did the first practical thing.
Bobby reached across the table and took John’s hand—no drama, just fingers closing around his like it was the most normal thing in the world.
John looked at their hands, then up at Bobby.
Bobby’s voice was quiet. “Eat one more bite,” he said. “Then go.”
John swallowed hard. His throat felt too tight for food, but he nodded anyway, because Bobby’s steadiness was the only thing keeping him from bolting upstairs to pace.
He took a bite of eggs that had gone lukewarm, chewed mechanically, and swallowed. Then he stood, phone and keys in hand, coffee still warm enough to carry him.
The Lanes were calling.
And tomorrow, Logan would walk in with a clipboard and a polite smile, and John would have to look like a man who belonged in his own building.
Bobby watched him by the table, eyes steady.
“You’ve got this,” Bobby said.
John didn’t say he did.
He just nodded once—small, grim—and moved toward the day.
He made it as far as the kitchen doorway before Bobby’s voice stopped him.
“Hey.”
John paused with his hand on the doorframe, keys cold in his fist. He didn’t turn around right away, because turning around meant letting the moment become a moment.
Bobby didn’t let it become dramatic either. He just said, “Come here.”
John turned.
Bobby stood by the table, phone in one hand, the other hand resting on the back of the chair like he was anchoring himself too. He looked calm, but John could see the alertness in his eyes—Bobby tracking John’s exits the way John tracked threats.
John walked back a few steps, stopping in front of him.
Bobby’s gaze flicked down to the keys in John’s hand. “You’re about to sprint.”
John’s mouth tightened. “No I’m not.”
Bobby’s eyebrows lifted. “That was a fast no.”
John exhaled, defeated by his own tells. “Okay. Maybe.”
Bobby nodded once, satisfied with honesty. “You’re not going to sprint,” he repeated, like he was laying a rule down gently. “You’re going to go. With a plan.”
John’s jaw clenched. “I do have a plan.”
Bobby’s mouth twitched. “You have a list of tasks and a panic soundtrack. That’s not the same thing.”
John stared at him. “What do you want from me?”
Bobby’s expression softened. “I want a check-in.”
John blinked. “A check-in.”
Bobby nodded. “When you get to the Lanes, you text me. Not a ‘I’m dying’ text. Just… an arrival. Proof you didn’t disappear into stress.”
John swallowed. The request was small. The request was also a rope.
“Okay,” John said.
Bobby continued, “Then after you talk to Piotr and Marie—after you’ve done whatever pre-inspection chaos—call me.”
John’s pulse ticked faster. “Call you.”
Bobby’s eyes stayed steady. “Yes.”
John’s mouth tightened. “What if I’m busy?”
Bobby’s grin sharpened slightly. “Then you text me that you’re busy and I don’t spiral and drive to Rainbow Lanes and start interrogating your staff.”
John blinked. “You would not.”
Bobby’s eyes widened, innocent. “I absolutely would. I’m charming. I would become Kitty’s best friend in twelve minutes.”
John snorted despite himself. “Kitty would eat you.”
Bobby leaned in slightly, voice soft. “Then I’d die doing what I love. Being dramatic.”
John shook his head, the laugh easing the tightness in his chest just enough for him to breathe.
Bobby reached out and touched John’s wrist again—gentle, grounding. “I’m not asking for control,” he said quietly. “I’m asking to be included.”
The word included landed like a weight.
John looked away for half a second, throat tight. Included meant letting someone see him under pressure. Included meant giving someone a handle into his life, a place they could touch.
It was what he wanted.
It was also what scared him.
John forced himself to meet Bobby’s gaze. “Okay,” he said, more solid. “Included.”
Bobby’s mouth softened into a small smile. “Good.”
John’s phone buzzed once—another alert, probably a work thing, probably Marie already stacking tomorrow like a tower.
John ignored it.
Bobby stepped closer, and without asking, pulled John into a quick hug.
Not a long, cinematic one. A short, firm press of bodies that said you’re here, I’m here, and then Bobby released him before it could turn into a goodbye.
John stood there with the warmth of it still on his skin, stunned by how much a few seconds could steady him.
Bobby leaned back, eyes bright. “Also,” he added, returning to teasing like it was a life vest, “Jubilee said she’s judging my toast, so now I have to start a war.”
John’s mouth twitched. “You can’t win a war against Jubilee.”
Bobby’s grin went wicked. “Watch me.”
John shook his head, smiling despite himself.
He took a breath and turned toward the hallway leading to the front of the house, toward his coat, toward his life.
Bobby called after him, “Text me when you get there.”
John lifted a hand in a brief salute without turning back. “I will.”
It wasn’t a promise dressed as romance.
It was a plan.
John grabbed his jacket from the hook by the back door—one of Bernie’s old hooks, brass and stubborn, screwed into the wall like it expected decades of coats. The jacket smelled faintly like detergent and the house’s persistent old-wood scent. John slipped his arms into it and felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders.
Keys. Phone. Wallet.
He patted each pocket automatically, a ritual that used to be about not losing things and was now about not losing himself.
Behind him, Bobby moved around the kitchen, the soft clink of plates and the squeak of a cabinet hinge. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. Sounds that still made John’s chest tighten because they implied continuation.
John paused at the threshold of the back door and looked out through the window.
The yard was damp. The fence looked tired. The sky was pale and undecided, a January gray that didn’t commit to rain but threatened it anyway. The air outside looked cold—sharp enough to sting.
He opened the door and stepped out.
The chill hit immediately, climbing up his sleeves, sliding down the back of his neck like a reminder: the world exists. The world doesn’t care that you had warm coffee.
John pulled the door shut behind him, then locked it, one clean turn of the deadbolt. No double-checking. No ritual panic. Just locked.
Across the street, Remy’s house sat in its half-renovated state—less chaotic than it had been months ago, but still in process. A tarp flapped gently. A ladder leaned. A window was open a crack. John wondered if Remy was inside, already at work, already building something with his hands.
John stepped off the porch and the boards creaked under his weight, complaining as always. The gate squeaked when he pushed it open, loud and dramatic, and John huffed a quiet laugh because even the gate was theatrical.
He closed it behind him and walked toward the curb, the damp air filling his lungs.
His phone buzzed again. John pulled it out, expecting Marie or Jubilee.
It was Bobby.
A text, short and infuriatingly tender. Text me when you get there. Also your gate is yelling goodbye.
John stared at it, mouth softening despite himself.
He typed back as he walked. Gate is dramatic. Leaving now.
He hit send, then shoved the phone back into his pocket before he could stare at the word leaving and make it mean more than it did.
A car pulled up at the curb—rideshare, clean enough, driver looking bored. John slid into the back seat and shut the door. The interior smelled like someone’s citrus air freshener and leftover winter coats.
“Rainbow Lanes,” John said to the driver.
The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb, tires hissing on damp pavement.
John watched Bernie’s house recede through the rear window: porch, curtains, fence, the quiet stubborn shape of it. He imagined Bobby inside now, washing plates, humming off-key, existing in John’s space without asking permission.
The thought made John’s throat tighten.
He looked away and forced himself into the day.
He opened his notes app and typed a fast list, because lists were the one thing he trusted when his brain wanted to float.
check handrails
bathroom lights
lane 6/7 logs
safety signage
Piotr maintenance binder
Marie: inspection plan
Jubilee: heads-up re: Logan? (maybe)
He stared at the name Logan at the bottom of his mind like it was a toothache.
Logan with a clipboard. Logan with polite distance. Logan whose routine visit might become leverage if Doug’s ecosystem had its fingers in the right places.
John inhaled slowly through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, forcing his shoulders down. The driver’s radio murmured softly—some talk show, a laughing host—and the city passed in gray, damp motion outside the window.