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Cutting its head off by bringing it into the open.

I could say it.

I probably should say it. Use the opportunity to get it off my chest and hear Jack scoff and scorn.

That’s what I think he would do. Scoff and scorn. But Bryce… I’m not so sure.

The truth is sitting there between the coffee mugs, set to be spewed out and dismissed as bullshit, and I’m tempted. I really am.

Only I’m scared. I’m scared it’s not bullshit.

I’m scared that reality is going to come along and eat me up and spew me out instead.

Bryce looks at Jack’s hand on his, trying so hard not to look like it means everything, and Jack mutters something under his breath about ‘tragic coffee bean worship’ just to cover the tenderness he started, and I decide Christopher can go to hell for the time being. I don’t want him here.

Not in Jack’s kitchen.

Not in this strange, quiet morning.

Not near Bryce’s tired smile or Jack’s careful fingers.

This place – this moment – is all about us.

So I say nothing. I lift my coffee instead, take a sip, and let myself stay inside the warmth.

The city beyond Jack’s windows is waking up, dawn showing its face, which is apparently enough to bring the standard Bryce Maddocks back from wherever he’s been hiding.

He checks the time.

Almost six a.m.

“Oh, God,” he says.

Jack pulls his hand away with a typical smirk. “If you’re about to pray, BT, at least make it interesting. Not over yet another work report that barely anyone will actually look at.”

The words land badly. Bryce pulls a face like he’s been slapped.

“Don’t take the piss. I have responsibilities.”

Fucking hell, I could thump Jack.

My heart pounds as I see Bryce returning to himself, already scanning the room for his shirt, his phone, his careful life, as though he can step back into it if he moves quickly enough.

Jack sighs. “Call in sick for once, seriously. Bloody hell, Bryce. The whole empire isn’t going to collapse because you didn’t fill in a spreadsheet on time.”

Bryce looks at him. “Work is work, Jack. It’s important.”

“In several hours.”

“Several hours I need. I need to go home. Shower. Change. Prepare.”

“You need to get a grip.”

“Jack.”

Jesus. How a mood can change so quickly.

Jack props his head on one hand, looking infuriatingly beautiful and entirely too pleased with himself for someone dispensing life advice at six a.m.