The Edge Of A Beg | Jamie Cook

nine

AN: sometimes you feel stuck and that's okay. you take your favourite tropes, daydream for a while and write them down one by one. after all, I've realised that escapism is better than realism.

writing this chapter has been so fun and exciting so I reallyy hope you'll love it. thanks for everything.

Silently, Jamie observes the room from the dark wood floor to the light grey walls, from the black chandelier to the massive painting on the wall.

I bet he has already shaped who I am from the office gossip, so entering my personal area must be a shock to him.

Everything feels suddenly oversized but slightly intimate. Like we're only two tiny particles. Isn't it what we are anyway? What does 'hate' even mean in such a vast universe?

"Hey you."

I quit staring at my feet and look over at the man in my living room who is crouched down, patting Charlie's head. It takes a moment for my eyes to process the strange image in front of me. At least my dog doesn't seem to hate him.

I stiffen some, taking off my shoes and my coat and trying not to flinch at the sudden pain shooting through my head when I straighten again.

"What's her name?" Jamie asks, eyes focused on the little creature.

"His. Charlie."

He frowns for a second, the tiniest of smiles spreading on his lips. "You had no inspiration?"

"I thought it would bring us closer, he and I. I'm not so good with male stuff."

Jamie eyes me curiously, tempting me to speak about every little detail of my life. At the same time, Charlie makes a low sound, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. And his mouth curls up.

But I remember that he's still Jamie, Work Jamie, Freaking Parking-lot Jamie, and it stops me from smiling too.

I cross the room to put some more distance between us, which he completely destroys as he does the same and comes to stand next to me.

Pulling open the large sliding door, I watch his reaction. The sight of the balcony makes him pause momentarily, eyeing the glass bannister running along the edge, and the most striking feature: the pool in the middle.

I walk forward until I'm at the edge of the balcony, as though the cold up here isn't so much worse than below and the cold air can cure everything. With hesitant moves, Jamie mimics me.

A minute or two of silence pass, and he turns away from the view of the city to lean his back against the railing to gaze at the pool instead.

His hands are tucked into his pockets again. If he's cold, he doesn't complain about it.

"A pool in London?" Jamie finally says.

"I didn't build it myself."

"You didn't?" he tries to joke, and my lips turn up just a tiny bit. "I mean, I hope it's heated."

We fall silent again, this time more awkwardly, glancing at the planes flying above us. I wrap my arms around myself, cringing at the image of myself breaking down in front of him. I used to keep it all in. What even happened there?

"Look, I know you're vexed and all," Jamie says, fumbling with a button on his coat. "But I really don't—I mean, I don't think you should be alone at a time like this. I can stay and get you anything. Just—try to help, somehow."

Releasing a shaky breath, I swallow and mutter that I'll be alright.

It's never hard calling him an asshole; I would do it every day for free. But being serious in this way? It's harder than what I'd imagined when we both entered the building five minutes before while, without even being aware, changing the dynamics.