Jack was supposed to be alone on the roof. All he wanted was a minute alone with the sunrise and silence before handoff with Robby. But when he climbs the stairs (huffing slightly because his legâs been digging into his skin for the past 3 hours) and finally gets to the roof, he finds you already there.
In his spot.
And panic shoots through him for a second because no one else ever goes past the railings. Not Robby, not the doordasher, certainly not you.
You donât move an inch when he closes the door behind him, the lock clicking as he turns it. Robby can eat shit.
âIâve thought about it too, yâknow?â
He can just barely catch your eyes opening, gaze lowering to stare out at the orange-red horizon blooming over the city.
ââbout what?â
You try to sound calm but thereâs a slight unsteadiness to your voice. Itâs barely noticeable but Jack catches it.
Itâs you, of course he does.
âAbout what it would be like to let go. To forget about the injuries and the screams and the blood and just take a step or two forward. About how itâd feel to have free air replace the concrete under your feet and have the weight lifted off your chest for just a second. To find a moment of tranquility within the chaos.â
He sees your jaw clench, chest rise and fall as you take in a breath.
âYeah,â you let out breathlessly and even with your back turned to him, he can picture the tired smile on your face. The one he thinks about a little too much to admit, âSounds pretty damn nice, doesnât it?â
He closes the gap between you, white-knuckled hands planted on the railing separating you from him.
His voice is low, quiet and gentle in a way youâve come to associate with Jack Abbot, âBut it wonât last as long as you hope. Never worth the disappointment of reality.â
The silence is thick, heavy. More deafening than the fireworks that make Jack flinch, a rare occurrence that melt his stone-cold facade. The same fireworks that made you cover his hand with yours one new yearâs eve on the park bench. The half-drunk beer cans beside you lukewarm and long forgotten. Heâs reminded of the way you squeezed his hand lightly and how heâs been chasing the warmth of your skin against his ever since.
A moment passes before you turn your head to face him, eyes finding the unyielding gaze already locked in to you.
âYour therapist teach you that?â
Then heâs back to Dr Abbot again, face flat and voice devoid of emotion.
âNo. But yours should.â
Jack canât tell if the noise you let out is a laugh or a scoff, âI donât have therapist.â
He makes a similar sound.
âFuckinâ figures.â