Chapter Text
When the final bell of the afternoon rang, Jamie smiled at the miniature humans packing away their things.
“Don’t leave without giving me your work!” he called. A couple of kids skidded back toward his desk, backpacks half-open, worksheets slapped down hastily before they bolted again with cheerful, overlapping choruses of “Bye, Mr. Tartt!”
“See you all tomorrow,” Jamie said, already stacking papers into his folder. As the last of them filtered out, he added his notebook and pens to his leather satchel. He took a long drink from his water bottle, checked his phone, fired off a couple of replies, then shoved everything into his bag and zipped it shut.
He pulled on his coat, turned off the lights on his way out of the classroom, and headed down the hallway toward the exit.
“Jamie!”
A hand clapped his shoulder. Jamie turned, grinning automatically.
Theodore Montgomory Ashcombe — but please, call me Theo, he’d said the first time they met, blue eyes practically pleading. Jamie had fully expected to hate him on principle alone, but twenty minutes into his first day they’d bonded over football and truly awful reality TV, and that had been that.
Theo fell into step beside him, on his way out too.
“Theo,” Jamie said easily, not breaking stride. “What’s up, mate?”
Theo grinned crookedly. “We’re going out for drinks. You coming with us?”
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Who’s we?”
Theo laughed. “Always so suspicious, Jamie. It’s not like we’re going to torture you.”
“Like you wouldn’t absolutely love to torture me.” Jamie continued out through the entrance, Theo following straight after him.
Jamie stopped and turned, pointedly looking at him, waiting.
Theo rolled his eyes. “Me,” he said, pointing at himself like there were any other options, “Susan, Deidre, and Charlie.”
“Theo,” Jamie groaned. “Come on. You know Charlie wants to shag me.”
Theo’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe you need it.”
Jamie nudged his shoulder. “We work together. It’s weird.”
“We’re all adults here,” Theo said. Jamie meaningfully looked around at the last few stragglers — very clearly children. “Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.”
He continued, clearly unbothered. “You can shag who you want. He’s a nice bloke. And he’s fucking hot.”
Jamie stared at him, eyebrows climbing, because Theodore Montgomory Ashcombe — Goddammit, Jamie, please please call me Theo — was nothing if not straight as a fucking arrow.
“What?” Theo said defensively. “I can appreciate a nice-looking guy. I’m very modern.”
Jamie blew out a breath through his nose, jaw tightening. It wasn’t like he had anything else going on. He probably would’ve gone out with Colin and Michael tomorrow anyway, maybe picked someone up if he felt like it. Danced a little. Got a little — or a lot — drunk.
Not like retired footballers were knocking down his door.
“When?” Jamie said, giving in.
Theo beamed, fist pumping the air. “Tomorrow. After work. The King’s Arms.”
“Day drinking, are we? Things might get messy.”
Theo slapped both hands onto Jamie’s shoulders, staring at him intently. “That is exactly what we’re going for, mate.”
Jamie rolled his eyes and shoved him away. Theo jogged off out of reach, fingergunning him with a cheeky wink as he went.
What a nerd.
“Fuck,” Jamie muttered under his breath, still facing the entrance.
His hand tightened around the strap on his shoulder as he turned, ready to walk home.
As he was leaving the school grounds — most children already picked up or on their way out, hand in hand with a guardian — there was a lone child sitting on a bench just inside the school gates, trainers barely touching the ground, a sketchbook balanced on her lap.
“Hey, Phoebe. You alright?” Jamie asked, pausing in front of her.
“Sir! Hi! My mum’s a bit late,” Phoebe said brightly, not bothered in the slightest.
“Oh.” Jamie glanced at the sparse school grounds, then back at her. “Okay. Why don’t I wait with you until she shows up, then?”
Somehow, Phoebe brightened even further. “Okay!”
“What do you have there?” Jamie asked, setting his bag on the ground as he sat beside her on the bench.
“I’m working on something for the art competition. But I don’t think I should show you, because you’re going to be a judge. And really, you shouldn’t be biased either way before the actual show.”
Jamie smiled widely at that. “What if I promise?”
“Maybe.” Phoebe paused, thinking hard, her little face scrunched as she stared at him. “Okay! Promise.” she demanded.
Jamie grinned, then put on the most solemn, serious expression he could manage. He placed a hand on his heart and raised the other, like he was taking an oath in a courtroom. “I, Mr. Tartt, promise that no amount of seeing your pictures today will change the outcome of the art competition.”
Phoebe smiled and turned back to her sketchpad, opening it to a page halfway through the book.
Jamie blinked. Swallowed. And then blinked again.
He was confronted by a pair of uncomfortably detailed breasts.
Jamie opened his mouth, closed it. Tried again. Nothing came out. He had absolutely no idea what to do when presented with this by an eight-year-old. He was suddenly thrown back to that essay Phoebe had handed in, where every other word had been a swear. He’d been at a loss then, too.
Jamie coughed. “This is… what you’re going to hand in for the competition?”
“Well, maybe not this one exactly.” Jamie perked up eagerly, hope flaring that he wouldn’t have to break a little girl’s heart — that maybe she wanted to submit a sunset or something. “See, I’ve been practising! And I’ve gotten better, so definitely not this one. I can do much better for the art show!”
She turned the page.
“Okay!” Jamie said quickly, snapping the sketchbook shut. “Phoebe.”
Jamie blinked, the afterimages lingering. “I don’t think that’s very appropriate.”
Phoebe’s face scrunched again, this time in confusion. “But this is a form of artistic expression, Mr. Tartt! And you always want us to express ourselves as individuals.”
Jamie’s own face scrunched in response — augh, his heart. “I know, Phoebe. But it’s like that time you got in a little trouble because of your essay, remember?”
Her expression turned sombre at the thought.
“This won’t be accepted for the art competition,” Jamie continued gently. “You’re eight.”
“And a half!”
Jamie smiled. “And a half. And so are all the other children. Emphasis on children. If this is what you want to hand in, I can’t stop you, but it won’t make it to the actual show.”
He hurried on, panic creeping in, hands waving in front of him. “But don’t let that discourage you. You might decide not to enter at all if you can’t hand in what you really want, yeah? That doesn’t mean you won’t be able to one day. Way, way in the future — like ten years from now in the future. You get me?”
Phoebe sighed forlornly. “It is just like the swearing, isn’t it?” She thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. “Okay. I can wait!”
Jamie smiled warmly. “Do you have any other ideas, or are you giving it a miss this time?”
“Well, we’ve got a new cat that we rescued! She’s so sweet, and I love her so much, and I think she loves me too. I could definitely draw her!”
“And what does she look like?” Jamie asked encouragingly.
“She’s white and orange, and her face—” Phoebe brought her hands up to her cheeks. “I just want to squish it!”
“She sounds adorable. What’s she called?”
“Clawdia,” Phoebe said with a cheeky smile, her fingers curling into claws.
Jamie burst out laughing, head tipped back. “Oh, that’s good.”
Phoebe smiled proudly — and then a low cough interrupted them.
Jamie’s head snapped toward the sound, heart thudding in his chest.
Roy. Roy-Fucking-Kent.
It was always Roy-Fucking-Kent. Jamie didn’t even know why he was surprised at this point.
The frozen smile on Jamie’s face slowly receded as Phoebe leapt off the bench and ran toward him, a happy “Uncle Roy!” escaped her as she wrapped her arms around him.
Jamie was close enough to see how Roy’s eyes softened completely, right from the front row.
His stupid heart thumped in his chest when Roy patted Phoebe’s head, brushing back any flyaways.
Jamie leaned over to pick up his bag, knowing his work here was done. He stood and slung the strap over his shoulder once more, ready to walk home. It was already getting dark and he still needed to exercise, but he was more than ready for a cosy evening — especially with after-work drinks tomorrow. He really didn’t want to deal with all of Roy right now either.
Jamie’s phone buzzed in his coat pocket, and he welcomed the distraction — anything to give him an excuse to look away.
“Uncle Roy, thank you for picking me up, can we have ice-cream?” Phoebe asked imploringly.
Roy huffed. “Fuck no. Home.”
Jamie bit the inside of his lip, swallowing the automatic urge to reprimand Roy for his continued use of swear words around children. He answered the work chat with a string of emojis (🔥🍹🍻🍋🟩🙌) after Theo spilled the beans about his maybe-actually going for drinks on Friday. Theo worked fast, the wanker — less of a chance of him getting out of it now if all of them knew. God, he hated being so obvious about everything.
“Mr. Tartt waited with me, Uncle Roy, and I told him about Clawdia. I think I’m going to change my original entry for the art show to a picture of her. Mr. Tartt says it’s a bit more appropriate.”
Jamie closed his eyes, and hoped the ground would swallow him whole.
Jamie smiled as professionally as he could and eventually had to make eye contact with the guardian assigned to this particular little human. Roy was assessing him like a butterfly on display, eyes dark and intense.
“Thank you,” Roy said, low, “for waiting with Phoebe.”
Jamie nodded, a Parent’s Evening smile fixed in place. “Of course, Mr. Kent. It’s school policy.”
Roy inhaled, his eyes tightened at the corners. He let out a quiet, unreadable hum.
“Uncle Roy,” Phoebe said, slipping her tiny hand into his, “are you sure we can’t get ice cream on the way home? It’s Thursday!”
Jamie didn’t know what it’s Thursday meant, but he had to give Phoebe a solid ten out of ten for manipulation.
Roy let out a low growl — which did absolutely nothing good for Jamie’s psyche — and stared Phoebe down.
God. At this point, Jamie just wanted them to leave so he could close the gate. He really didn’t want to be given this window into Roy’s life, standing on the outside looking in and seeing just how much Roy was so clearly wrapped around his eight-year-old niece’s little finger.
Eventually — after a surprisingly intense stare-off between uncle and niece, mostly conducted via eyebrows — Roy gave in.
“Fine,” he grunted.
He straightened, shoulders squaring beneath his leather jacket like he’d won the fight, instead of having lost it spectacularly.
With that settled, Jamie subtly started walking toward the school gates, hoping they’d follow so he could close them. He wasn’t shooing them — but it was close. Fucking hell, he wanted a litre of ice cream at this point too, and to cry to Colin about how soft Roy Kent actually was.
They followed him, and Jamie cheered internally. Fucking body science for the win.
Roy cleared his throat, making Jamie jump slightly, amygdala instantly on high alert. He watched as Roy’s jaw tightened to the point Jamie was sure his teeth might crack. He opened his mouth, then shut it again — so hard Jamie could hear his teeth click from three feet away.
Jamie blinked, then turned back to the gate, pulling it closed behind them.
“I—”
“You—”
They both started at the same time. Phoebe stared between them with wide, curious eyes.
Roy grunted, then tried again. “You should come… for ice cream. Or one of those sugar-filled coffees you like.”
Jamie answered before his brain could catch up with his mouth. “I usually leave those for weekends.”
Roy’s face closed off so completely Jamie was fairly sure it was made of granite, and Jamie dove in before Roy could backtrack.
“But I can have an Americano,” he added quickly, trying not to sound as startled as he felt.
Jamie had been so certain Roy’s busy had been the door slamming shut on whatever this was. If anything, Roy inviting him for ice cream — like they were all eight years old — only left him more confused than he’d been all day.
“Oh, Mr. Tartt!” Phoebe said brightly. “You should definitely come for ice cream. Uncle Roy usually can’t have much,” she stage-whispered behind her cupped hand, “because of his milk issues.”
She shuddered dramatically, then beamed at Jamie. “But you can have one with me!”
Jamie smiled kindly, still refusing to look at Roy, even as Roy tipped his head back towards the darkening sky like it might hold answers — or at least spare him from Phoebe cheerfully spilling all his secrets.
“Depends if they’ve got a flavour I like.”
“Oh, this place will definitely have it! It’s the best place,” Phoebe said, already tugging Roy down the path, excitement kicking in. “Right, Uncle Roy?”
“Oi. Slow down,” Roy grumbled, though he let himself be dragged anyway.
***********************
The chalkboard sign outside the ice-cream place boasted Authentic & Artisanal Italian Gelato, written in brightly coloured chalk and surrounded by small drawings of waffle cones piled high with scoops.
Richmond was such a lovely neighbourhood; every little nook and cranny he discovered made Jamie appreciate it in a new way. He recognised the street they were on, knew it was close to his flat, but he’d never really noticed the place before. Popping into gelaterias wasn’t really something Jamie did — especially not with Roy Kent and his adorable niece.
Phoebe, for some reason, had decided to explain the change she’d made to her art show entry after taking his advice. Roy had given him a look Jamie couldn’t quite interpret, and Jamie, wisely, had kept walking — straight into the little shop.
It was quiet, on account of it being a random Thursday afternoon and barely ten degrees outside. Jamie had never really understood the appeal of wanting to be colder. He liked being warm; thick fabrics, heavy hoodies, constant movement to keep the heat in so his body didn’t entirely shut down on him.
The shop itself was bright, all blue and cream highlights on the furniture. Stacks of waffle cones in different sizes waited on the counter to be swept up by customers, and — thank God — there was an espresso machine tucked beside neat rows of San Pellegrino bottles.
Phoebe ran straight to the counter; face pressed against the glass as though it were the first time she’d ever seen the sugary display. With her earlier insistence that “it’s Thursday,” Jamie had the sneaking suspicion this was a regular occurrence — probably only a week since the last visit.
Even though Phoebe was barely six feet away, it was the most privacy Jamie and Roy had had since Roy had arrived at the school, and Jamie felt it keenly. Like a live wire. All the easy banter they’d shared had evaporated, and Jamie had no idea how to get it back — or if he even could.
He could feel Roy’s stare against the side of his face, heat blooming under his skin. Not uncomfortable, exactly — just too much to feel normal about standing in an entryway with Roy Kent.
Jamie bit into his lip hard enough he was surprised he didn’t break skin. Simon’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his head, and before he could stop himself, Jamie looked directly at Roy.
“What?” he asked quietly.
Roy kept staring, like Jamie was a complicated puzzle and Roy had been unlucky enough to pull him from the toy stack. He hummed, but didn’t answer.
“What, Roy?” Jamie asked again, rougher this time.
Roy’s eyebrow lifted. “We’re back to ‘Roy’, now?”
Jamie flinched — gave too much away with the smallest movement — and turned his head aside. “We were on school grounds. It’s unprofessional.”
“What a load of bollocks.”
Jamie’s head snapped back toward him, eyes wide.
Roy went on, unfazed. “You were calling me ‘grandad’ the second time we met. On school grounds.”
Jamie could feel the heat creep up his neck, and he whisper-shouted, “That was different.”
“How was that different?” Roy asked, genuinely confused.
“It just was,” Jamie said, exasperated.
“You’re being weird,” Roy said bluntly.
Jamie’s mouth fell open. “I’m being weird? The actual fuck, Roy. You’re weird, you English-challenged buffoon.”
Jamie’s chest was heaving like he’d just sprinted for his life, and when Roy’s eyebrow did something complicated and vaguely alarming, Jamie had the distinct feeling that running might soon become necessary.
He watched as Roy silently mouthed the word buffoon, staring at Jamie like he’d just been handed a crossword clue written in another language.
“Uncle Roy! You need to pay, please!” Phoebe called from the counter, already clutching a waffle cone stacked high with something aggressively blue and full of sprinkles.
Roy grunted and went to pay, as instructed.
Jamie wondered if he could escape — if this was his chance to actually survive — when he heard, “Oi. What do you want?”
Jamie sighed and walked toward the counter, accepting his fate. “Small Americano, please.” Teacher-smile back on in full force as he looked at the girl behind the counter.
“Mr. Tartt, you said you’d get ice-cream,” Phoebe said reproachfully. “Uncle Roy is getting vanilla.”
Jamie softened, his smile turning real as he looked from Phoebe to Roy — and sure enough, there he was, holding a plain waffle cone topped with vanilla. Roy gestured vaguely at the display with it, somehow managing to make the motion look faintly threatening.
Jamie glanced back at the glass. “One scoop of almond-chocolate, please. In a cup.”
He reached for his phone, but Roy nudged him aside gently and tapped his card against the machine.
“I invited you for ice-cream,” Roy said. “So I’m paying.”
Jamie swallowed and stepped back, collecting his coffee and ice-cream before he did something stupid like stare. He scanned the room and moved toward the table Phoebe had already claimed at the back. He could feel Roy close behind him the whole way.
Once they sat, Jamie nodded toward Phoebe’s cone. “What flavour’s that?”
Phoebe beamed. “Bubblegum cotton candy.”
“Oh wow,” Jamie said solemnly. “Both. Sounds… fascinating.”
Phoebe studied him for a moment, then asked, “…do you want some?”
Jamie laughed. “I’m alright, thanks.”
Phoebe brightened instantly — the pure joy of a child who didn’t have to share but had offered anyway. Double win.
Jamie took a spoonful of his gelato and immediately groaned. “Oh my god,” he said. “This is amazing.”
Roy hummed, “What’s with the noises?”
Jamie glared at Roy from across the table, “I haven’t had any sugar since Sunday, give me a break.”
Roy furrowed his brows, “You’re fucking mental.”
“Not all of us have set meal plans and four a.m. trainings booked in, Roy. I need to watch my figure.” Jamie pointed at himself sarcastically.
“I don’t wake up at four a.m. every day, it was just one time.”
“You implied, heavily, that four a.m. is a normal time for multiple things. Which you said you’d tell me in person. Care to share?” Jamie was on a roll, finally settling into himself.
Roy eyes flicked from Phoebe back to Jamie, “Probably not the best idea.”
“Fine, keep your secrets.” Jamie pouted as he sipped from his coffee.
The silence that followed wasn’t fully comfortable, but it had finally settled from that razor edge tension that was hanging around.
But Roy had the emotional range of a fucking sledgehammer, of course he ruined it with his words.
“What’d you mean before?” Roy asked bluntly.
Now Jamie’s eyes flicked from Phoebe happily finishing off her cone to Roy, minutely shaking his head.
Roy stared him down before he slapped his card on the table and said, “Phoebe, get another ice-cream.”
Phoebe’s eyes widened, before her face transformed into pure delight at the confirmation of more sugar. She swiped the card off the table, not even finished with her current one, and bounced off to the counter before Roy could change his mind.
Jamie leant, whispering, “What do you mean, what do I mean?”
Roy’s already strong eyebrows seemed to stiffen, “Why are you fucking whispering?” He continued without letting Jamie speak (Oh now he was King of the English Language), “You called me an ‘English-challenged buffoon’. Who says that, even?”
“I do, Roy.” Jamie said angrily, still whispering, “I say it. Because you have the communication skills of a mute turkey.”
“Fucking turkeys?” Roy’s face spoke volumes of what he thought of the comparison.
“They’re known to be very confused animals.” Jamie pointed out.
Roy shook his head in disbelief, “How am I having this conversation?”
“You’re the one that brought it up!” Jamie said defensively.
“You know, you talk a lot but don’t actually say anything. Answer me.”
Jamie sat back on his seat, feeling like he was a schoolboy with that tone, he sat straight and tried to channel his inner Mummy and Simon again. Jamie’s eyes were at half-mast as he stared at Roy, and he felt like he was having an out of body experience.
“You said you were busy on Saturday.” Jamie finally said.
“Yeah.” Roy nodding, confirming.
Jamie inhaled, asking God for peace and patience. “You didn’t… say anything else, Roy.”
Roy nodded again, face a confused picture, “Because I’m busy.”
“Every day, Roy? For the rest of your life? You’re just busy forever?”
“You asked about fucking Saturday, and I can’t on Saturday. You didn’t mention any other day, so I thought maybe you could only do that day.”
Jamie opened his mouth, then closed it again. Roy continued before he could find the words.
“Have you been acting all weird because I—what? Didn’t ask follow‑up questions? I’m not fucking psychic.”
Jamie blinked, quiet. Because that was really fucking fair.
He’d been thinking Roy had slammed a door in his face, when really Roy had just answered the question Jamie had asked. And then — without meaning to — he’d left the rest in Jamie’s hands. As if Jamie was meant to be the one to circle back, suggest something else, keep the conversation alive.
It wasn’t fair. Even if Jamie had accepted Roy’s terms and conditions when they’d exchanged numbers, firmly leaving the responsibility to Jamie. He was used to being the one who reached first, spoke first, filled the silence before it turned into something sharp. But Roy wasn’t someone who filled silences.
Roy came from a different generation. A man who’d grown up eating and breathing football, where things were said straight or not at all. Jamie had learned early how to read between the lines, how to soften words so they didn’t bruise on the way out. Roy didn’t do that. Maybe he never had.
Jamie didn’t know. Just like Roy didn’t know him either. Not properly.
But he wanted to. Wanted Roy to know all the dark bits of him, not just the light ones — the same way he wanted to know everything about Roy.
The very man was still staring at him when Phoebe returned, proudly wielding the biggest cone on the menu, piled high with every colour in the rainbow.
Jamie huffed out a breath, glancing at Roy. Roy looked like he regretted all of his life choices.
“Dr. O’Sullivan is going to murder you.”
***********************
Roy had insisted on walking off their treat, even with a soon-to-sugar-crash Phoebe on his hands, still finishing off her second enormous cone. She walked a little ahead of them, close enough that Roy could keep an eye on her, far enough that they could pretend they had some privacy.
“I wanted—” Jamie stopped, his hands tightening into fists in his coat pockets.
He tried again. “I wanted to say sorry.” He paused, risked a quick sideways glance at Roy, then lost his nerve and faced forward again. “So… sorry.”
His voice was thick with his accent, uncomfortable with it.
Roy only hummed.
And Jamie couldn’t stop the waterfall once it started. “You were right. About not being psychic. How were you supposed to know, yeah?”
Another hum.
Jamie swallowed. “Yeah. Sorry.”
He snuck another glance when the silence stretched. Roy was staring straight ahead, brow furrowed, clearly lost in thought.
“Roy?” Jamie asked quietly. “Did you hear me?”
Roy nodded. Then said, “Fuck.”
Jamie’s eyebrows shot up, mouth falling open. He could honestly say this was the first time he’d apologised to someone and received a curse in return.
“Right,” Jamie said.
His body felt twitchy, fingers clenching and unclenching in his pockets. He pulled one hand out and fiddled with the strap of his bag, because—did that mean Roy accepted the apology or not?
“Stop that,” Roy said softly.
Jamie froze as Roy reached out, not quite touching, just close enough to interrupt the motion. Close enough that Jamie felt the suggestion of his body heat anyway.
Jamie stopped immediately.
Roy went on, still staring ahead. “It’s not like you were wrong.”
Jamie worried at his lip, eyes wide as he looked at Roy from the corner of his vision.
“I could…” Roy started, then stalled. It sounded like he was being interrogated by the Spanish Inquisition. He grunted. “I could try to ask… more.”
He didn’t explain what more meant. He didn’t need to.
Something in Jamie’s chest loosened. The door he’d thought Roy had shut hadn’t been slammed after all—maybe it was only cracked open, but there was air moving through it now.
Jamie turned fully toward him, smiling wide, eyes scrunching without his permission. “Good,” he said, breathy with relief. “That’s… really good.”
“I can’t promise miracles,” Roy warned, but he was smiling as he said it.
Jamie braved bumping his shoulder against Roy’s gently as they walked. Glad to be done with the conversation and landing on stable ground, he felt the tension drain from his shoulders just a little.
As they walked down the street, Jamie realised they were getting closer to his place. Phoebe had drifted nearer too, as if she had a sixth sense for resolved tension between the adults around her — which was telling in itself.
Jamie shot Roy a cheeky grin. “Are you walking me home again?”
Roy grunted.
“I think I can make it home alright. I do it every day,” Jamie pointed out.
“It’s on my way to where I parked.”
Jamie just hummed, unconvinced.
Roy’s eyes sparked as he smirked. “Maybe I just don’t trust you’ll make it home. You live here; you’re not from here. Big difference.”
“Please.” Jamie scoffed, turning around and walking backwards as he stared at Roy. “I know this place like the back of my hand.”
He closed his eyes and carried on walking, determined to prove Roy wrong. Jamie wondered what it was about Roy that reduced him to a middle-schooler.
“Oi, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Roy called out.
“Oh, me too!” Phoebe said happily.
Jamie smiled, eyes still closed, when, as he turned the corner, Roy said, “Phoebe, don’t you dare.”
It was unfortunate they were so close to Jamie’s building; it was like he could feel the time limit on another meeting with Roy.
A hand closed around his forearm, gently but firmly stopping him. When Jamie opened his eyes, he was met with Roy’s intense brown stare. He had to lean his head back — which, what, why was this his life? Was he always this tall? — and for a moment they were practically breathing the same air.
Roy’s voice was low and rough when he said, “You were going too far. Good thing I was here.”
Jamie nodded automatically, ready to agree to anything. He stared up at Roy and swallowed. His chest felt tight, and the smallest shiver ran through him.
“Yeah. Definitely. Thanks. Thank you.”
Roy’s hand tightened briefly around Jamie’s forearm, and Jamie’s mouth parted at the sensation — but it was gone too soon. A flicker of warmth lingered where they’d touched, leaving him dizzy in a way he didn’t expect.
Roy stepped back, nodding his head over Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing right at the entrance to his building.
“Uncle Roy, Mr. Tartt actually gave me homework.”
Jamie’s head snapped towards Phoebe. That was him. He was Mr. Tartt, and he was just standing here with her Uncle Roy.
Jesus.
Jamie shifted a step away when Phoebe continued, “And I’d like to see Clawdia soon, please.”
Jamie smiled at Phoebe before turning back to Roy, only to find the man already staring at him, like he hadn’t looked away once.
“I should head inside too,” Jamie said regretfully. He bit his lip and pulled it into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth.
Roy hummed.
Jamie released his lip and smiled. “See you around, Roy.”
“You busy tomorrow?”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “No,” he breathed, then remembered, “Well — yes. Work, and after-work drinks.”
Roy grunted, and Jamie rushed on. “But I’m free in the evening. Did you… want to do something?”
Roy studied Jamie’s face like he was memorising every tell. “I’ll send you my address.”
Jamie’s eyebrows shot up, and Roy rolled his eyes. “I can cook you something. And you can eat something that isn’t sugar-filled.”
Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “I think you have a very skewed view of how I eat.”
Roy raised an eyebrow. “What would you have had tomorrow?”
Jamie flushed and looked away. “Take-away. But that’s only on Fridays, Roy! I can cook. I’ll prove it to you.”
Roy smirked. “Maybe next time.”
Jamie huffed and pretended that didn’t fill him with enough giddiness to power the entire city.
“Yeah,” Jamie said lightly. “Maybe next time.”
Roy held his hand out to Phoebe, and she took it automatically, like it was second nature by now.
“So, I come over after I’m done, yeah?” Jamie asked.
Roy raised an eyebrow, clearly thinking ‘haven’t we been over this?’
“Just double-checking, Roy.”
Roy snorted and turned away briskly, saying as he walked off, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jamie smiled at that, heart racing — no maybe, no vague percentages or riddles to decode.
Actual plans.
“Bye, Roy!” he called after the man striding off with his niece. “See you tomorrow!”
Jamie clenched his hands around his bag and headed into his building.
Actual plans with Roy-fucking-Kent.