Chapter Eight, Part II

The Door on the Left

In the kitchen, Jack fills the coffee machine while Adrian sits at the small table near the window. Morning light falls across the records stacked beside the stereo and the photographs along the wall.

One shows Jack and a younger woman standing beside an old truck, both covered in grease and laughing. Another shows Jack with an older man Adrian assumes is his father. In a third, Jack is younger, maybe in his twenties, hair longer, expression more guarded.

“That Sam?” Adrian asks, nodding toward the photo by the truck.

Jack glances over. “Yeah. She was nineteen and convinced she could rebuild the transmission herself.”

“Could she?”

“No.”

“But you let her try.”

“She would’ve done it anyway.”

The coffee machine starts making a noise that sounds less like brewing and more like an appliance trying to escape.

Adrian winces.

“Have some faith,” Jack says.

“I did. Then it made that sound.”

Jack sets a large mug in front of him.

Adrian looks into it. “This is enough coffee for a family.”

“You wanted caffeine.”

“I wanted a double espresso.”

“This is at least four of those.”

“That is not how it works.”

“It is today.”

Adrian takes a cautious sip. It’s stronger than expected, not entirely terrible, and hot enough to make him feel human again.

Jack sits across from him with his own mug.

“Well?”

“I’ll survive.”

“High praise.”

Adrian looks at him over the rim. “You remembered.”

“I pay attention.”

The answer lands quietly between them.

Adrian takes another drink. Without the wine, the dark, and the bed around them, the morning should feel more awkward than it does. Instead, sitting across from Jack in a sunlit kitchen feels strangely easy.

Too easy, maybe.

Adrian looks at the small scene in front of him — Jack barefoot at the table, two mugs, his own wrinkled shirt, the memory of waking with Jack’s arm around him. It looks like something domestic, and that’s more unsettling than the underwear incident.

“How’s your head?” Jack asks.

“Attached.”

“That’s a start.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Jet lag?”

“And wine. They appear to have formed an alliance.”

Jack smiles. “You were doing fine until you stood up.”

“The patio moved.”

“Still blaming the patio?”

“It knows what it did.”

Jack laughs into his coffee.

Adrian finds himself watching him again.

Jack catches him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Perhaps you keep asking unnecessary questions.”

“Maybe.”

Neither looks away.

The memory of the kiss comes back with uncomfortable clarity — Jack’s hand at the side of his neck, the weight of his arm around Adrian’s waist, the moment the careful kiss stopped being careful.

Adrian feels warmth rise beneath his collar.

Jack’s gaze drops briefly to his mouth.

Not the wine, then.

Adrian sets down his mug. “I should probably get back to the hotel.”

Jack’s expression changes so slightly Adrian might have missed it if he weren’t watching.

“You in a hurry?”

“No.”

“Then finish the coffee.”

Adrian looks down at the enormous mug. “That may take several days.”

“I’ve got time.”

The simplicity of it makes Adrian look up.

Jack holds his gaze, then adds, more lightly, “At least until the shop calls to tell me everything’s on fire.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Only when Mike’s in charge.”

Adrian smiles and wraps both hands around the mug.

They sit for another few minutes, talking about nothing important. The weather. The neighbourhood. Whether Jack’s coffee should legally be sold as an industrial solvent.

At some point, Jack’s phone buzzes on the counter.

He checks it and shakes his head.

“Mike?” Adrian asks.

“Sam.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. She wants to know whether the wine expert was worth all the trouble.”

Adrian nearly inhales his coffee.

“You told her about me?”

“I told her I had to consult someone.”

“And she reached that conclusion?”

“She knows me.”

“What did you say?”

Jack turns the phone face down on the table. “Nothing yet.”

Adrian waits.

Jack looks at him. “I’m considering my options.”

“You made that face at the phone.”

“What face?”

“The one that says someone has disappointed you professionally.”

Jack smiles. “I don’t have a face like that.”

“You absolutely do.”

Jack picks up the phone and types.

“What are you writing?”

“That the bottle was excellent.”

“And the expert?”

Jack finishes the message and puts the phone down.

“I told her the expert exceeded expectations.”

Adrian feels himself go warm again. “Professionally?”

Jack takes a drink of coffee without answering.

Adrian looks out through the window, smiling despite himself.

Eventually, Jack stands and reaches for his keys. “I’ll drive you back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

The moment Adrian says it, he hears Jack’s own words from the day before. Jack seems to notice it too. Neither comments.

Outside, the morning is bright and already warm. Jack’s truck sits in the driveway, exactly where he said it would be.

Before opening the passenger door, Jack stops.

Adrian turns toward him.

For a moment they just stand there — sober now, daylight around them, no wine or darkness left to hide behind.

Jack lifts a hand and touches two fingers lightly to Adrian’s wrist.

“Last night wasn’t just the alcohol,” he says.

Adrian’s heart gives the same ridiculous, adolescent beat it gave in the dark.

“I know.”

“You sure?”

Adrian steps closer. “Yes.”

He kisses Jack before he can think himself out of it.

It’s shorter than the kiss from the night before, far less desperate, but there’s nothing uncertain about it. Jack’s hand settles at Adrian’s waist, steady and warm, while Adrian rests one palm briefly against the centre of his chest.

When they separate, Jack stays close.

“No security required,” Adrian murmurs.

Jack smiles.

“I’m learning.”