Ben’s parked outside the used bookstore downtown, motor idling, the radioactive binder sitting in his lap. Snowflakes drift lazily by the windshield. The scene is pretty and painfully indifferent. He checks his watch again: 10:43 pm, still seventeen minutes early. Because of course he is. Panic loves punctuality.

He stares down his reflection in the mirror, telling himself that this is a person about to take back control.
The reflection does not look convinced.

Here, Ben’s anxiety helpfully starwipes to another slide in the ongoing horror-powerpoint entitled ‘Absolute Worst Outcomes of this Meeting’ that’s cycling in his brain: Jackson simply laughs at him and tells him to stop wasting his time.
He’s mid-fantasy about reversing down the block when knuckles rap suddenly against his driver’s side window. Ben flinches hard enough to head-butt the visor.
Window down, cold air in, along with Jackson James: snow-flecked hair, eyes crinkling above a scarf wrapped high against the chill. “Evening. Are you planning on loitering out here all night, or just until someone calls the neighborhood watch?”
“I didn’t realize you were already here. Thanks again for meeting me, Mr. James. And, uh, sorry about the dating app thing. It was kind of a desperation move.”
“‘Desperation move,’ huh?” Jackson repeats with obvious delight. Ben silently blesses the scarf for obscuring Jackson’s too handsome face, even as another, less helpful part of him regrets missing out on seeing that smile in full. “Exactly how every guy dreams of being described.”
Ben’s laugh cracks like ice. “I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously. I just didn’t really have a lot of options. Not that you’re a last resort. I just meant you’re…special.” He closes his eyes, briefly debating jumping out and running directly into the ocean. “Specialized! I mean specialized. Your skillset.” His brain is begging his mouth to stop to little avail.
A faint snort escapes Jackson. “Keep digging, Fish Prince. At this rate, we’ll hit bedrock in no time.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been… a lot today. I just meant you’re unattached. Er, professionally unattached. To Whitaker Seafood.” He forces himself to slow down. “You’re not connected to any of this and it seemed like yesterday… that you thought something was wrong. And it is. Something is very wrong. So I thought… I don’t know, maybe you were the person that could help.” He ducks his head, voice quieter now. “But if this was dumb, I get it. I can go.”

Ben braces for rejection.
Instead, Jackson’s posture shifts, some of the sharpness softening. “Hey. I’m not blowing you off, alright?”

And then, almost too casually, just rough enough, Jackson adds, “If anything, Mr. Whitaker, you’ve got my full attention.”

Ben swears the temperature spikes. Jackson’s gaze tracks over him, slow, deliberate, borderline indecent, before landing on the binder in his lap. Ben’s fingers twitch, instinctively drawing it closer.
Jackson gestures toward the bookstore. “Maybe we should take this inside?” he says, low and easy, like it’s just a suggestion and that everything that happens next is in Ben’s hands. Like the faint possibility, of what, Ben isn’t even sure, doesn’t spark a confusing mix of panic and excitement in his stomach.
Jackson steps back to give Ben room, rubbing his gloved hands briskly. “Before I lose my best typing fingers to frostbite, preferably.”