Page 171 of Too Close To Home

He took the steps two at a time, boots thudding on the metal, needing the movement more than the speed. Harrison followed behind, and Jake unlocked the door, holding it open, watching Harrison. What he saw when he stepped in. Because his crappy little bedsit wasn’t a complete state anymore. Still his, though. Rough around the edges. But better. He’d even made the bed. No mugs or plates littered the floor, growing God knew what. He’d wiped the kitchenette clean that morning and packed his drum kit away neatly, ready for the next gig. The place was still dark. More than a bit grim. But it was somewhere he didn’t mind someone else standing.

Notably, Harrison Black.

Harrison stepped inside and took the bedsit in with one quiet sweep of those detective eyes. The new bedframe. The bits Jake had finally cleared away. Whatever else had changed since he’d last been here.

He gave a small nod. “You’ve kept busy.”

Jake shut the door behind him. “What else were I meant to do?”

He moved past Harrison and dragged his drumming stool out from beside the kit. “Keep walking that woodland path? No point anymore, is there?”

The words were out before Jake caught the other meaning in them.

Fuck.

That path had always been Robyn’s. Then Emily had disappeared along the same stretch and pulled Jake straight back into everything he’d spent thirteen years trying and failing to live around.

Now Harrison was there too.

Jake couldn’t walk through those trees without remembering him stumbling. Catching him. Harrison’s back against that tree. His hand in Jake’s hair. That first soft press of his mouth.

You’re nice.

Christ. One fucking kiss and apparently Harrison Black had managed to get himself tangled up in a place Jake had thought belonged exclusively to the worst parts of his life.

Jake shoved the thought away and set the stool down. “Sit.”

Harrison didn’t move immediately. “You have been, though.”

Jake frowned. “Been what?”

“Walking the path.”

Jake dropped onto the edge of the bed as Harrison finally sat. “You been watching me?”

“No. Uniform have noticed. As have the press.”

Ah.

Alright.

So maybe Jake had gone back a few times. Usually when he couldn’t sleep and the flat felt too small for everything going round his head. He hadn’t particularly thought anyone was keeping count.

“Not a crime, is it?”

“No.”

Jake rubbed his palms together and looked across at him. Which was a mistake. Because Harrison was sitting on his drumming stool. Such a stupid fucking thing to notice. It was a stool. Jake planted his arse on it and hit things for several hours at a time. Nothing remotely significant about it.

Except Harrison looked strangely right there.

In Jake’s space. Among his things. Coat still damp from outside, knees slightly apart because the stool was too low for him, those polished shoes planted on Jake’s shitty floor.

It gave him the same weird little kick he imagined he’d get from seeing Harrison wearing one of his hoodies. Or maybe how he’d feel wearing something of Harrison’s.

Fuck knows.

Either way, his stomach did that stupid fluttering thing again. As if Harrison belonged there.