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“It means I don’t want you anywhere near this, Jake.” His voice came out hard, fear sharpening every word. “I want you away from it. Away from men like Davo and whatever the hell sits behind this place. Because one day you’re going to push too far with the wrong person and end up—” He stopped.

Couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say the words.

Dead.

Missing.

Gone.

Chris.

“I’m tough, Harry.” Jake probably thought his smile might work. “I can handle myself. Been doing it years before you showed up.”

“Need I remind you of your record?”

Jake recoiled. “Low blow.”

“No. Fuck.” Harrison shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He took a breath, recalibrated. “And I didn’t say it to strike back at you, but you have got to realise there are consequences. And you don’t stop and think about them.”

“And you do nowt but think about consequences.” Jake shook his head. “Every fucking thing. Every possible way summat might go wrong. You think about it until you’ve talked yourself out of doing owt at all.”

Harrison opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because Christ, maybe Jake wasn’t wrong.

Maybe he wasn’t even talking about the case anymore either.

Jake looked away first, darting his gaze across the industrial estate shimmering beneath the heat haze while forklifts whined somewhere in the distance and metal clanged against metal.

“I like you, Harry.” Jake turned back to him and Harrison could see the sincerity. It hurt. “You know I do. And I hate—hate that whatever’s going on in your fucking head right now keeps stopping you from just leaning into this.” He gestured weakly between them. “Into me.”

Harrison drew a breath. Yet he still couldn’t find the words. Because leaning into Jake felt dangerously close to having something to lose again.

Jake glanced down. “And, fuck, Harry…I can’t keep falling deeper into this with you if you don’t even wanna dip your toe in with me.”

Harrison looked at him.

The sweat-damp curls. Sunburnt cheeks. The hurt Jake was trying so bloody hard to pass off as irritation. A man standing in the middle of a scrapyard practically laying his heart bare, while Harrison stood there in a bloody suit, unable to say anything useful back. Because he did want to dip his toe in. Wanted to dive fully in.

But it was exactly that terrifying him.

Then Chris flashed through his mind. The ring still sitting on his finger. Lauren Pike in the mortuary. Robyn Whitton still missing. Every boundary blurring beyond recognition.

And fear won.

Again.

Jake shut his eyes, knowing nothing else was coming. The answer was in what Harrison couldn’t say. And when he looked back up, he’d pulled away. Not fully. But enough to hurt.

“Right.” Jake stepped away from the car. “Thought so.”

Then he walked away.

And Harrison let him.

Despite every instinct screaming at him to call him back. To catch his arm. Tell him he’d got it wrong. That Harrison wasn’t standing safely on the edge while Jake fell alone.