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“Bachelor of Education, early childhood. I’m in my last year.”
He waited to see if Jack would give him that sideways look people sometimes did, but he just smiled and said, “Nice! My year two teacher was a bloke. It was awesome.” He looked at Harry consideringly. “You’ll be good at it, I think.”
“Yeah?” Harry wasn’t above fishing for compliments from someone he’d only known a day.
“Yeah. You’ve got this earnest educational vibe,” Jack said. “I feel like you’d be all, ‘Hey, kids! Today we’re gonna learn about fungus!’ And they’d think it was cool because you were excited.” He flashed Harry a shy grin. “That’s meant as a compliment by the way. I’m not trying to imply you’re some kind of mildew-obsessed weirdo.”
Harry didn’t fight the smile spreading across his own face. “No, I get it. And that’s kind of what I’m going for. Kids are sponges, you know? They’ll soak up whatever’s put in front of them. I just want to give them the good stuff.”
“I can see it,” Jack mused. “You’ll be the teacher with a snake in the classroom.”
Harry shuddered. “I fucking well won’t,” he said firmly. “It’ll be pet rocks or nothing.”
“Whatever you say.” Jack prised himself out of the armchair, went to the fridge and got them both a beer, because his idea of groceries apparently involved a carton. “Are you allowed?” he asked. “After?—”
“After my near-death experience?” Harry finished for him. Jack’s entire body stiffened, and great, now Harry felt like an asshole. “I’m fine, I swear. And I could murder a beer.” He reached out and grabbed the bottle, popped off the top, and, in an effort to smooth Jack’s ruffled feathers, he held it out and waggled it in invitation. “To second chances?”
The tension in Jack’s shoulders eased, and he clinked his bottle against Harry’s. “To second chances,” he repeated with an uncertain smile.
Harry would take it.
It was weird, living with Jack.
Mainly it was weird because it was so damn easy. They didn’t see much of each other—Jack got up before it was humanly decent for his eight a.m. starts, and Harry was a uni student and so considered it his duty to sleep in as long as possible. But Harry found himself looking forward to when their paths did cross. Jack was easy to talk to, he didn’t bring home a string of noisy sexual conquests—or any conquests, actually—and he had good taste in terrible TV. When Harry wasn’t out on dates, they spent the evenings watching Supernatural—but only the first five seasons, at Jack’s insistence—and talking shit about the plot holes and bad acting. Harry liked those nights.
And the cleaning turned out not to be a one-time, guilt-driven thing, either. About two weeks after he moved in, Harry came home to find Jack sitting at the kitchen table, a slightly glazed look on his face. “Jack?”
Jack grinned at him, sloppy and too-wide. “Pro tip,” he huffed out. “Open the bathroom windows when you’re using bleach. S’clean, though. I feel dizzy.” He blinked owlishly.
Harry’s eyes widened and he dashed to the bathroom. When he opened the door, he actually gasped—partly because the smell of White King nearly knocked him over, and partly because Jack had managed to get rid of the weird mildew that had plagued the bathroom since Harry had moved in. And the bathroom wasn’t just clean—it was mum levels of clean. Even the dried sliver of soap with the spider living under it was gone, replaced with a fancy pump bottle of handwash that purported to smell like lime and mint. Harry felt like he should take a picture and send it to Ambrose, because he’d never believe it otherwise.
He went back out to the kitchen and took in the sight of Jack sitting semi-sprawled in the kitchen chair. There were bleach stains on his singlet, his hair was wet with sweat at his temples and his cheeks were pink—whether from exertion or fume inhalation, Harry wasn’t sure. The sight caused a lurch of…something in his gut, like he might like to go and sit in Jack’s lap and touch his skin just to feel it under his hands or brush his hair back from his forehead.
Which was patently ridiculous, because Harry didn’t do that. He didn’t sit in people’s laps or brush their anythings away from their anythings.
He dragged his attention from the way the sweat was glistening on Jack’s biceps and opened the fridge door. After a moment’s indecision, he fished inside and held out his last can of cider to Jack, who beamed at him as he popped the top. Harry grinned back.
He’d been savouring the thought of that cider all the way home, anticipating the crisp coolness of it on his tongue, but suddenly it seemed more important that he show his gratitude. Jack had nearly gassed himself in pursuit of cleanliness, and that sort of foolish bravery deserved a reward.
That, and Harry liked seeing him smile.
Chapter Four
“Oh my God,” Mia said, staring up the dark, narrow steps. It had taken her a month to come and see where he was living, and he could see her regretting her decision already. “Jack, this place is a dive.”
“It’s got great bones though,” Jack said, and kicked the wainscotting. A piece of plaster dislodged itself, crumbling over the toe of his work boot. “That…that’s not the bones. The bones are solid. That’s more like…the dandruff.”
Mia stared at him intently. “Blink twice if you’re being held here against your will.”
“It’s not that bad, I swear.” He gestured to the steps. “Watch the fourth step. It’s rotted.”
Mia was right about one thing—the house was a dive—but for some reason Jack didn’t hate living here. Okay, so maybe a good part of that reason was the guy sleeping in the room next door to his, but it was also nice to be out of Mia’s place. The problem with couch surfing was that it was exactly that—surfing—constantly skipping from surface to surface, always in motion without being able to stop and take a breath. It was having nowhere to put all his stuff, and always feeling underfoot when other people were trying to use the common areas. Nothing quite as fun as sitting outside on the footpath because Mia and Tate were having a romantic dinner in the tiny living-dining area that was also Jack’s bedroom. Then wondering later exactly what they’d got up to on the couch he was trying to sleep on. No, his own bed, even in a room with a creepy watermarked ceiling, was one hell of an improvement.
Mia made her way tentatively up the steps. “I know you almost killed Harry, but I don’t think that you need to balance the karmic scales by killing yourself by moving in here.”
He snorted as he followed her up the stairs. “Don’t let Mum hear you talk about karmic scales.”
He could hear her roll her eyes. “Fine. Atonement, whatever.”
