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He returned to Harry in the waiting room and held out the pack of EpiPens.
Harry stood slowly and tugged his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans then opened it.
“No. It’s…paying for these is the least I can do.” Jack saw the edge of a red twenty dollar note tucked into Harry’s wallet, and nothing else. He wouldn’t have accepted Harry’s money anyway, even if he’d glimpsed a wad of fifties. “Harry, I’m so sorry.”
Harry turned his red-rimmed gaze to him.
“Whatever,” he said, and shuffled towards the exit.
Jack spotted Harry again at the bus stop on Parramatta Road. He was sitting there, hunched over a bit, like he was trying to disappear. Good luck with a shirt like that. Jack pulled over, the brakes on his rattly old ute squealing a bit, and leaned on the horn.
Harry’s head jerked up.
He was actually really cute when he wasn’t at death’s door. He had tousled dark hair, a wide, expressive mouth and wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses that were, frankly, fucking adorable. Okay, so he also gave off some aggressive ‘I’m not into you’ vibes, but maybe that was just because Jack had almost killed him earlier on. Besides, he was still allowed to look, right?
“Need a lift?” he called as Harry squinted at the ute.
For a moment he thought Harry would refuse, but he stood and walked cautiously over. He opened the door and climbed in. “I live in Newtown,” he said. “Dickson Street. It runs off King.”
Jack only had a vague idea whereabouts that was. “You might have to be my GPS,” he said. Harry shrugged, and Jack noted that he still looked like shit underneath the cute and the eye-searing shirt. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said, yet again. “Are you really sure you’re fit to leave the hospital?”
“I told you they said I can leave if I have someone to supervise me at home,” Harry said, mouth set in a grim line that suggested he really didn’t want to talk right now. The attempted murder was going to take some getting past, wasn’t it?
Jack took the hint and pulled out into the traffic, pretending not to notice the way Harry was hugging his backpack like it could protect him from an attack.
They didn’t speak all the way to Newtown, except when Harry told him where to turn and where to stop. Jack pulled up in front of a rundown terrace house that looked like the only thing holding it up was its neighbours. It stood out like a blackened tooth in an otherwise bright smile when compared to the houses on either side. It was also the only house in the row that didn’t have any lights on yet as the afternoon darkened into dusk.
“Thanks, I guess,” Harry said, and got out. Jack didn’t miss the way he swayed on the spot for a moment, like a stiff breeze might knock him over.
“Do you actually have someone here to keep an eye on you?” he asked, his concern growing as Harry grew steadily paler.
Harry let out a shaky breath. “Yes. No. Maybe. I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.”
Jack got out of the ute. “Maybe I should come in. Make sure you’re okay.”
Harry’s mouth tightened, and he looked like he wanted to object, but then he went as white as a sheet, and Jack had to wrap an arm around his waist to stop him sagging like the porch of the house. Jack let him catch his breath for a second, then carefully guided him up the cracked concrete path, past the weeds in what passed for a front yard. When they reached the door Harry tried to open it. It was locked. He let out a groan. “Tris must be out.”
Jack wasn’t sure if Harry wanted him here or not—probably not—but he’d been raised on an ethos of helping out where he could and being a good Samaritan, plus he’d spent some time in the waiting room googling the after-effects of anaphylaxis. He sure as shit wasn’t leaving Harry home alone. Quite apart from anything else, Mia would kill him.
“Come on,” he said. “Find your key, and let’s get you inside.”
Harry scowled, but he dug in the pocket of his jeans and produced his key. Jack took it from him and slid it into the lock. They made it inside, and Jack deposited Harry on a particularly ugly overstuffed armchair.
“I’m fine,” Harry said, obviously lying.
“Do you need anything?” Jack asked, ignoring Harry’s assertion. Harry didn’t look like he was fine. “A glass of water maybe?”
Harry smacked his lips together. “Yeah, maybe.”
Jack found the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the stack of dirty dishes and washed it. By the time he got back to the living room, Harry’s head was lolling to the side, mouth drooping open. Jack panicked for a split second, heart racing as he worried that Harry had left the hospital too soon and passed out, but then he let out a gentle snore, and Jack heaved a sigh of relief. Harry was asleep, that was all. Still, he looked pretty pathetic, sprawled in the chair like that, and Jack could hardly leave him alone.
It looked like he was staying after all.
Chapter Three
Harry didn’t remember going to bed. He squinted at the open door when he woke up. He also didn’t ever sleep with his door open, because Tristan was loud, and so were the guys he picked up. Tristan said that just meant they were doing it right. Harry just wished they could do it a bit more quietly. Except this morning he wasn’t waking up to a series of moans and grunts and groans that would put a warthog to shame. This morning he could hear, from downstairs, the sounds of a conversation.
He climbed out of bed, noting he was still wearing his jeans and his Hawaiian shirt. He shuffled out into the hallway and put a hand on the wall as he was going downstairs because he still felt a little dizzy.
