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Brodie pushed off the bar with a lazy grin and prowled into Jake’s space until only the polished wood stood between them, beer and cheap aftershave rolling off him in waves.

“Tell you what,” Brodie leaned closer, enough for anyone watching to assume they were flirting. And after what Roman had said, they all would be. “Buy me a drink after closing and I’ll show you properly.” He winked. “Maybe you’ll remember what you liked about it.”

That hit with the sharp stink of who Jake used to be. Quick fumbles behind pubs. Back rooms. Strangers’ hands and borrowed bodies because it was easier than thinking too hard about any of it. Easier than grief. Than Robyn. Than being known.

“Or…” Brodie smiled. “You could stop asking questions about parts of my body you’ve got no business thinking about anymore. Unless you want it again?”

Across the pub, Roman watched him, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth as if this were all just another bit of entertainment. But Jake had no option if he wanted to know. So he jerked his chin at the narrow corridor beside the cellar door and stepped around the end of the bar.

Catcalls started instantly behind him. “Get in, Whitton!”

Brodie laughed softly under his breath as he followed and the second they were out of sight of the main pub, Jake shoved him against the wall. Not hard. Enough to stop the smug commentary.

Brodie’s grin barely faltered, eyes flashing with excitement. “Told you you’d come back.”

Jake said nothing as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Brodie’s jeans.

“Behave,” Brodie tutted, amusement curling through his voice, “Pete’s only in the office.”

Jake met his gaze as he undid the top button of Brodie’s jeans, letting him believe, just for a second, that this was heading somewhere entirely different. And, staring him straight in the face, he dragged his zip down, tugging the denim low over the sharp jut of Brodie’s hip. All the while Brodie’s breathing laboured.

Then Jake glanced down.

There it was. The tattoo he knew he’d seen before. Only back then he’d barely paid attention to it. Most times they’d ended up together Jake had been drunk, angry, lonely, or some dangerous combination of the three. More interested in disappearing than paying attention. Eyes closed. Mouth occupied. Hands gripping skin while Brodie laughed against his throat or pulled him deeper into distraction.

The tattoo had never been more than a blur.

Now he saw it properly.

A black heart. Roughly stitched through the centre with crude linework, the ink faded unevenly with age. Newer tattoos curled partially over the edges as if trying to bury it beneath fresh mistakes and failed.

Jake stepped back. “Where’d you get it?”

“That all I’m getting?”

“Aye. Where d’you get it?”

Brodie’s smirk eased off as he fixed his jeans back into place. “Thought your precious detective filled you in on my colourful history.”

Jake didn’t bite. He watched him. Something about that seemed to unsettle Brodie more than anger would’ve.

“Why d’you care anyway?” Brodie dragged a hand through his blond quiff.

Jake folded his arms. “Does it mean summat?”

“Don’t all tattoos?”

“Some more than others.”

A beat passed. Noise from the pub floated, muffled through the wall behind. Someone shouting for another round. Glasses smashing somewhere near the fruit machine.

Brodie shook his head. “You wanna know? Go ask the girls down Hessle Road.”

Jake frowned. “Hessle Road?”

Someone yelled from the bar. “Brodes! Pint’s dying here, mate!”

Brodie glanced through the doorway, then looked back at Jake. “Forget it. Means nowt.”