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“If you insist on being late like this, we might as well make this a dinner date,” Lydia declares after their waiter delivers their orders and staggers off a little dazed. Well, Jackson’s order and very precise, pseudo-gourmet thing on Lydia’s plate. There are few people Jackson has sympathy for in this world, and, for the past few years, the staff at this restaurant make up the bulk of them. “You’re lucky I thought to order for you,” she continues.
Jackson shrugs and rubs the back of his neck as he glances out the window. “Yeah, sorry,” he offers. He hopes that’s obvious enough for her to ignore the way he can’t quite quell the giddy feeling in his chest.
It’s clearly not good enough.
“Spill.”
“Huh?”
Lydia rolls her eyes. “You’re grinning like an idiot.” She investigates her sandwich with delicate fingers. “So, spill already.”
Jackson pointedly frowns. “I’m not grinning.”
“You want to,” Lydia says, doing this squinty thing with her eyes Jackson has recognized long ago to mean danger.
Still, Jackson takes a moment to stare—or, rather, glare—at her. Then, he blows a blustering sigh of defeat and finally lets the smile itching under his skin to break free, because, dammit, it’s hard to fight. Lydia makes a small sound in her throat and, a blush spreading like wildfire from his nose to cheeks, Jackson ducks his head to his dumb Caesar salad.
Okay, that’s definitely a disgusted groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jackson rubs a warm, red cheek and regains his composure. Mostly. That damn smile still splits his lips even as he drizzles dressing over croutons, cheese, and lettuce. “What?”
“You’re even starting to smile like him, you know?”
Jackson snorts and spears a chunk of his salad. “Like who?” he asks, taking the bite.
Lydia rolls her eyes so hard it looks like it hurts. “Like Scott, you dumbass.” She wrinkles her nose as Jackson chokes and drops his fork with a clank. “I don’t have to do the Heimlich, do I?” she says tiredly.
Jackson coughs into his napkin. After a moment, he manages to croak, “W-What are you talking about?”
“You and Scott, obviously,” Lydia says, scrutinizing her sandwich once more before biting into it. Once she finishes chewing: “You’ve gotten pretty buddy-buddy lately.”
Three years ago, he would have denounced it a million, million, million times, and very well might have caused a scene in this frou-frou little place if only to ward Lydia away from accusing him of something like that ever again. Again, though, that was three years ago, and since just a few weeks ago, actually, Jackson’s been crashing on Scott’s couch after another falling out with Derek.
And, things have been good, oddly enough.
Really good.
Really, really, really good.
Jackson reaches for the throbbing in his shoulder without thinking and doesn’t manage to jerk it away before Lydia notices.
Now, she’s the one grinning. Or smirking, rather. And before Jackson can think of something to dispel whatever crazy thought’s running through her head, she reaches for his hand and squeezes tightly, warmly in hers.
“Good,” she says gently, smile wide and brilliant and her eyes so, so sweet, “I’m glad.”