Page 66 of Too Close To Home

Harrison watched him a moment. He’d learned more about Jake Whitton in that one conversation than he ever would from a file.

“That was decent of you,” Harrison said finally.

Jake looked up, brow lifting. “What? Getting my estate agent mate to lie to his buyer?”

“No.” Harrison moved to the sofa. Not his, technically; the previous owner had left it behind, but it would suffice until he could get his other stuff from storage. He’d need to hire a van for that, too. Another thing he needed to sort out. “Keeping an elderly woman dry without charging her. That says something. Others would’ve taken advantage of that.”

Jake crossed the room and dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa, careful not to drip on the least-damaged patch of carpet.

“Maybe.” He took a cautious sip of tea. “Still needs doing properly though. I’ll strip that whole section back once it dries out. New membrane, new battens where they’ve softened. Flashing round the chimney’s lifting as well. Could see it from the ridge. It’s a patch job at the minute. Needs more than that. So I’ll get the bits and do the lot when it’s convenient.”

Harrison nodded. Practical. Solid. Jake spoke about roofs the way Harrison spoke about casework. Fix the structure, not the surface.

Then Jake’s gaze drifted towards the hallway. “I uh…did knock earlier as thought your wife might be about.”

Harrison blinked. “My wife?”

Jake tipped his chin towards Harrison’s hand wrapped around the mug. To the gold band on his ring finger quietly scraping over the porcelain. Harrison looked at it himself then, too. Then he closed his eyes, took a measured sip of tea, and swallowed past the familiar tightening in his throat.

Then, finally, he said the word he detested more than anything, “I’m a widower.”

Jake’s posture changed at once. He dipped his head, hair falling forward to shield his face. “Oh. Fuck. Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture awkward but sincere. “How long ago did she die?”

Harrison frowned, checking whether the assumption had been careless, probing, or simply automatic. Jake looked entirely genuine.

So Harrison corrected him. “He. Husband.”

Jake blinked, a small recoil from his own mistake. “Ah. Right.” He gave a faint shake of his head, wry resignation settling in. “Guess even we default to the straight setting sometimes, eh?”

The ‘we’ made Harrison smile. It was subtle. Unforced. Jake wasn’t giving an announcement; he was offering a quiet inclusion.

He liked it.

“Heteronormative reflex.” Harrison lifted his mug for a sip. “It’s persistent.”

Jake huffed a soft laugh. “Aye. That.” He stared into his tea for a moment, shoulders easing a fraction. Then he glanced back up. “How long ago did he die?”

“Three years.”

Jake nodded, working that over, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “How—”

“Can we not?” Harrison cut him off before the question could fully form.

He wasn’t ready to say it. Not here. Not in a half-flooded living room with dawn clinging to the windows. He’d spoken the words enough times in counselling rooms smelling of lavender and neutral paint. It hadn’t become easier. It had only become rehearsed.

Jake dipped his chin. “Course. Aye. Sorry.”

There was no frustration in it. No curiosity pushing past the boundary. Jake knew loss. Different shape, maybe. Different wound. But loss all the same. And Jake didn’t have a body to anchor his grief to. No funeral. No finality.

Harrison wondered then which was worse.

Knowing the one you loved had left this world by choice…or knowing they hadn’t chosen to at all.

“So…” Jake inhaled, shifting the conversation deliberately. “Hartswick’s your new start?”

“Yeah.” Harrison wrapped his fingers tighter around his mug. “Came for the quiet.”

Jake cocked his head. “Staying for the chaos?”