Caleb woke up feeling like death and with a really awful crick in his neck. He lay there and whimpered at himself for a while before remembering that it wasn’t Wednesday morning, it was Saturday, and he could take his time dragging himself into the land of the living. Which was good, because he felt awful.

And cold, and his clothes were too tight, and . . . He grunted and blinked grit out of his eyes. He was still in his suit and shoes, splayed out over the short couch near his entryway. He didn’t remember coming home. Had he just collapsed on the first thing he’d found?

He slowly levered himself up, carefully toeing off his shoes, and then, wincing, stumbled to his bathroom to down a glass of water and something for his headache. After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he felt a little more human. Probably a shower was in order but . . . maybe not yet. Instead he leaned over the smooth marble of his sink and peered blearily into the mirror, trying to remember what had happened. He’d woken up alone at least, in his own place, so he had to have gotten home somehow.

His suit was a rumpled mess, which was a crying shame. He normally took better care of them. He emptied his pockets on the bathroom counter, then stripped off the jacket and unbuttoned his wrinkled shirt, stepping out of his trousers. Standing in his undershirt and briefs, he was sorely tempted to just leave his clothes in a pile to deal with later but . . . Caleb couldn’t do that to a good suit, no matter how he was feeling. So he gathered them up and put them in the “to be taken to the cleaners” area of his closet. He couldn’t find his tie, but he really wasn’t in the mood to hunt around for it. It’d turn up. Or it wouldn’t. Either way.

Caleb made his way back to the bathroom and sifted through the pile on the counter, looking for his key card, freezing when he wasn’t able to find it.

Shocked into alertness now, he ran back to his closet and searched through all the pockets of his jacket, then his trousers, and came up with nothing. Trying to retrace his steps—difficult when he couldn’t remember anything—he went back to the sofa and looked around it, under it, stuck a hand between the cushions. No key.

Maybe . . . maybe he’d actually put it by the front, where he usually kept it? He went to check, and no, it wasn’t in its neat little holder but— He glanced down. The key card was on the floor by the door.

He bent to pick it up and remembered— Not everything, but flashes. The . . . the blond buying him more drinks, saying he’d take Caleb home, getting a cab and—

And—

Cab.

Jaxon.

Fuck.

Caleb was never drinking again.

Saturdays were pretty good days. Busy. A lot of runs to and from the airport in the morning and afternoon, and a lot of evening fares after a night of drinking. The latter Jaxon liked a little less, since half the time they were rowdy or drunk or mouthy, but he’d sucked it up and gotten used to getting stiffed half the time and just took more fares to make up for it. It was a long day, but at least the perk of being a cabbie was that, if you were willing to sacrifice an hour you could be making money, you could take a nap or pick up your groceries, if you were so inclined.

Midmorning he was considering one such break, when his radio crackled to life.

“Jaxon? Got a fare for you.”

Jaxon rolled his shoulders and settled back against his seat. “Go ahead, Reggie.”

“Pick up at the Lindsey Towers. Address—”

“I know the address,” Jaxon said quickly. “Where am I taking ’em?”

“Madison Heights,” Reggie said, “282 Garden Square. And they want you waiting for them too, for the drive back.”

Jaxon let out a low whistle. Madison Heights was a good hour one way. Plus wait time? That kind of fare would make his whole day. “How long am I getting you coffee, for giving me this gig?”

“Can’t take the credit for this one, man,” Reggie said. “He requested you specifically.”

He. At Lindsey Towers. Jaxon swallowed. “Oh. Uh. Name for the pickup?”

“Wrotslavsky.”

Right. Yeah. Of course. “Roger,” Jaxon said, glad his voice came out even. “Thanks, Reggie.”

Oh boy. Jaxon felt himself sweating as he started up his car and began making his way over to the Towers. Well. Maybe Caleb just . . . needed to get to Madison Heights. He knew Jaxon by now, wanted to ask for him by name. Probably he didn’t remember yesterday.

Hopefully he didn’t remember yesterday. Jaxon had broken all sort of rules. He needed this job. Even kind of liked this job. Did not want to lose this job. But if marketing research-whatever fitted-suit-wearing Caleb decided Jaxon had crossed a line . . .

And shit, what if Caleb and Eli really had been friends or something? And Eli had already told Caleb everything? Including how Jaxon—

Fuck, he really hoped he was working himself up for nothing.

Caleb realized he was taking his time getting ready, to look nice, and felt even more foolish about the whole thing. It’d seemed like a good plan when he was panicking and trying to remember details about yesterday. Now that he’d eaten, showered, and was finishing getting dressed . . . he felt pretty stupid. And stupid was the last thing he liked to feel.

That was half the reason he was buttoning up a crisp white shirt, pulling on a neatly pressed suit jacket in smooth, practiced motions like he always did when he geared up for battle at the office. Suits were the first thing he turned to, the perfect uniform for success, immediately giving him command of a room, making people think twice when he took his time speaking up. Let them stew over his silences, not pity him for them.

Not that he needed that sort of power or presence to go apologize to his fucking cab driver but—

He sighed and checked his hair, figuring he might as well complete the package. He’d wanted to talk to Jaxon, apologize maybe, or thank him, possibly both, ask for details just to be sure, and he wasn’t about to try to take up Jaxon’s time when he could be working. So. A long drive, give him a good fare, plenty of time to talk, and it would be easy to be dropped off early if need be.

Of course, being in the car and Jaxon driving meant that Caleb was going to actually have to talk to him instead of writing things down, but it couldn’t be helped. On the plus side, he was sober, he was ready, and he was dressed to kill. His confidence would just have to carry him through the conversation, exactly like it did at work. Even with the stops and starts.

Usually when Jaxon had a pickup at a residence, he called the fare to let them know he’d arrived. Didn’t have to do that here—Caleb was waiting outside, back straight and looking cool and composed, dispassionate eyes watching Jaxon pull up in front of him.

Jaxon had to swallow hard. Drunk Caleb, in mostly darkness, had been kinda cute, rumpled, just a touch of ungraceful. Sober Caleb, in full afternoon sun, was devastatingly handsome, all sleek lines and perfect posture, and he looked like he could absolutely murder Jaxon without getting blood on his sleeves. He also looked kind of like he wanted to.

Jaxon was betting Caleb hadn’t forgotten yesterday.

No helping it now. It would be fine. He hadn’t done anything, not really, just . . . helped a guy get back to his place. Nothing wrong with that, right?

He steeled himself and rolled down the window.

“Afternoon,” he said, trying for his usual smile. “I’m your driver to Madison Heights?”

Caleb nodded once, opened the shotgun door without prompting, slid in next to Jaxon, and buckled himself in.

O . . . kay. A lot of fares didn’t like sitting up front, but sure. Yeah.

“So,” Jaxon said, clearing his throat. “Madison Heights, yeah? 282 Garden Square?” At Caleb’s nod, he breathed out. “Okay.” He clicked on his meter and pulled his car out of the Towers’ lot.

They drove in silence for several minutes, but while before it had been easy, comfortable, now Jaxon felt a palpable tension. The air in the car was thick with it, and at this point he was just waiting for something to happen.

He glimpsed Caleb out of the corner of his eye, and the guy was not-quite glaring, but only just. Maybe he was . . . not looking forward to whatever meeting he was going to? That could be it. Jaxon wouldn’t’ve been too happy if he had to be dragged out for a two-hour round trip on a Saturday. Y’know, if he wasn’t getting paid to drive.

After a few more minutes, right when Jaxon felt he was going to crack and say something himself to break the silence, Caleb opened his mouth.

And spoke.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, voice all smooth and fluid and damn, okay, Jaxon had figured out yesterday he wasn’t mute, what with Caleb saying thank you, but that’d been slurred and stuttered. This was something else. Jaxon was not prepared for that voice. “For last night.” Each word was clipped and precise, spoken with almost pointed enunciation.

“Uh yeah,” Jaxon said. Not in trouble, then? “Sure, man, no problem.”

“I am sure it . . . caused p-plenty of—” Caleb stopped and gritted his teeth. Jaxon flicked him a glance before returning his attention to the road, hearing more than seeing the angry hiss of an inhale. “Pl-pl-plenty of pr-pr-p-pro—” A full-out snarl then, and Jaxon looked over quick.

“Do I need to stop the car?” He wasn’t going to deal with an angry fare in a moving vehicle.

But Caleb composed himself almost instantly, face again smooth and calm. Then he took a deep breath and nodded.

“Ne-ne-next exit,” he bit out, looking furious at . . . himself?

Jaxon wasn’t going to argue. He took the next exit that came up and drove into the first parking lot he saw. He pulled around back, behind a donut place and a watch repair stop.

“Am I dropping you off here?” he asked. Caleb shook his head quickly. Opened his mouth, closed it, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Keep th-the meter ru-ru-ru-running, p-pl-p-please,” he eventually forced out, as if each word were causing him physical pain. “I’m n-not wa-wa-wasting your t-t-time wi-without paying yo-yo-y-you.”

Jaxon eyed him. “Okay,” he said. And waited.

Caleb started and stopped a few times, clearly wanting to say something, before he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. Jaxon heaved an inward sigh.

“Don’t bother,” he said, nodding at the notepad. Caleb looked up at him and frowned. “I mean. You can write, if you wanna, if that’s better for you, but—” he did sigh this time, letting it all out in a rush “—I can’t read.”

Caleb’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“Yeah,” Jaxon averted his eyes. “I know, okay? But there it is. Dumb as a brick.” Caleb scowled so hard that Jaxon actually jerked back a little.

“I-if yo-you a-a-are du-du-d-d-dumb f-f-for th-th-that, h-how do yo-y-you think I f-f-feel?” he spat, quick and choppy.

Jaxon held up his hands. “Did I say something? I didn’t say nothing, man.”

“C-Ca-C-Caleb.”

“Caleb,” Jaxon amended. “Right. Look, I’m not exactly one to judge! You’re . . . clearly doing good by it,” he added, eyes flicking over the suit. “I didn’t even know you could talk, until yesterday.”

Caleb sighed noisily. “Th-th-tha-that’s w-wha-w-w-what—” Stopped, frowned, and shook his head. “L-l-last ni-n-night. C-c-ca-can’t reme-mem-m-member a-a-all of it.” He stopped again, looked at Jaxon significantly.

Oh. “Oh, you just want . . . the blow-by-blow? What, uh, what happened?”

Caleb nodded. Awesome, okay, sure, Jaxon could do that.

“Well uh, dispatch got a call for a cab last night, and that area is pretty much my turf, so I went over. It was another guy”—Eli Deaton, 23 Elm, Jaxon never forgot an address—“and you, uh, you were pretty out of it.”

Caleb had steeled his face again, and nodded, keeping quiet. Jaxon figured he should just keep going.

“Anyway, at first I thought he was a friend of yours? Called the cab for you, you know. And I already knew you were at the Towers, so I asked if I was taking you there, but he said no, you were both going back to his place. And that . . . didn’t seem right, to me. Been a cabbie for over five years now, I pick up on things. Also,” he paused, not sure if he should add this in. But in for a penny. “Uh, I mean, I already said you weren’t really doing much, but you kept, like, chopping the air? With your hand?” Jaxon tried to mimic the movement, moving his right hand over his left. Caleb sat up a little straighter.

“Stop,” he said clearly.

Jaxon stilled. “Uh, okay?”

Caleb frowned and shook his head. “Means ‘st-stop.’” he said, doing the motion himself. “S-sign l-l-la-language.”

“Oh,” Jaxon said, eyes wide. “Right. Uh. Well.” He swallowed. “I guess I got it right, then.”

Caleb nodded, lips twisting.

“Right,” he said again, avoiding that look and feeling so, so stupid. He should have known from the get-go. “Okay, so, yeah, I drove him to his place, got paid, but kinda maybe didn’t let him take you with him. I didn’t fight or anything,” he was quick to add. “Try to, uh, avoid that if I can. Especially with, uh—” slick white guys who could make all kinds of trouble. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, then I drove you back to your place and uh. Got you into your apartment. Then I left.”

Caleb was watching him, expression cool and calm again, and Jaxon was getting the feeling that was his default way of coping with the world. Blanking himself out when things got tough. Jaxon used to do the same thing but with anger, till he’d gotten better ways to cope. So he understood it, but the expression and the silence were still making Jaxon sweat in his seat. “I didn’t touch anything, I swear,” he burst out. “I got you in and I left. In and out, that’s all I did.”

Caleb softened just a little and held up a hand. “I-I-I wa-wasn’t w-w-wo-worried. J-just a th-th-tha-thank-you.” He smiled at Jaxon, but it was brittle, not at all like the loose, sleepy smiles from when Caleb had been drunk and silent. He made another aborted motion with his hands. “B-back to the To-T-Towers, pl-p-please.”

“Okay,” Jaxon said immediately. “Sure, no problem.” They were only about ten minutes out, it’d be easy to get back.

The return drive was totally silent. Caleb faced the window, breathing steady and even, and Jaxon was not about to say something else without being prompted. When the cab pulled into the lot, Caleb pointed at an open parking space. The request was pretty clear.

Jaxon swallowed nervously and did as he was told, parking the car. Once he did, Caleb turned to him again. He smoothed down his lapels, straightened both sleeves, checked the cuffs, and opened his mouth.

“I must apologize again,” he said, voice back to being fluid and precise. “I am not angry at you. I am grateful. I occasionally have issues speaking, as you noticed. This leads to some personal frustration.”

“That’s fine,” Jaxon said quickly, trying to act like it made absolute sense that his fare was apologizing to him. “Like I said before, really not one to judge.” Least you’re successful, but he kept that extra thought to himself.

Caleb gave him a hard searching look, like he had heard what Jaxon hadn’t said. Then he reached back into his jacket pocket and pulled out the slim notebook and pen. Even they looked expensive.

“Uh—” Jaxon said, as Caleb bent his head to scribble something down. Caleb glanced up, eyebrow raised. Jaxon swallowed down the reminder about the whole can’t read thing and shook his head. “Never mind,” he mumbled, dropping his eyes.

After a moment, Caleb stopped writing, read over what he wrote, then ripped out the page, and handed it to Jaxon who sighed, taking it.

“You don’t—” Caleb paused, reeling himself back in. Then he gestured at the note and pointed down, before shaking his head.

“I don’t have to read it right now?” Jaxon guessed, trying not to sound too obviously relieved.

Caleb nodded and smiled again, thinly, the barest quirk of lips.

“Okay. I’ll just, you know. Later. Uh, did you want to—” Get out? Go back to your day? Stop lowering yourself by interacting with your cabbie? He gestured at his meter for lack of words.

But Caleb got it, nodding and pulling out his card.

“Okay!” Jaxon said, setting the note on his dashboard. “Sure, just let me—” He totaled the meter and rattled it off. A way lower fare than what Jaxon had expected, but he was less disappointed about it than he could have been.

Caleb spent a moment scribbling over the receipt, and he handed Jaxon’s copy back to him folded, a clear message to not open it until he was gone. Jaxon took it and tried for a smile, knowing it came out weak.

“Have a good afternoon,” he said on automatic, as Caleb exited the car. Caleb turned around and smiled at him, nodding again at the note on the dash before closing the door behind him. He started walking to his building, all clean lines and perfect posture. Jaxon did not watch him go, instead he unfolded the receipt in his hand, figuring he should check it first.

And promptly had to lean back in his seat, breathing hard. Caleb had paid for the short round-trip. And then had tipped nearly five times what the fare was. The fact that he was living in the Lindsey Towers, dressed the way he did, frequented the Flameshow Bar—Jaxon knew Caleb was doing well. But this was just—making it clear. Caleb was on a really different level.

There was a little sad face at the bottom of the receipt. The words Thank you and Sorry written in even, blocky, capital letters that, combined with the sight words, made them easy enough to read. And with the tip—it, well, it felt like Caleb really cared. Though why he did, Jaxon had no idea.

Not really knowing what to expect, Jaxon set the receipt aside and picked up the note. It, too, was written in careful, blocky capital letters. Caleb had also done a weird thing where he’d made the bottom of each letter darker than the top. For some reason that made the words almost . . . easier to read.

There were a lot of words, which was daunting, but they were all pretty short. Jaxon just went for the beginning and resigned himself to the long, slow process of picking through them.

I . . . am . . . sor . . . sorry. I do . . . nnnot . . .wa . . . want . . . to . . . ta-kuh-e . . . take . . . up . . . yo-u-rrr . . . your . . . tih-mmm-e . . . tie-muh-e? . . . oh, time . . .

Ten minutes later, Jaxon had managed two read-throughs. Even for being so long, it had actually been a pretty easy read. Caleb had been really thoughtful about it, using short, easy-to-sound-out words. It was a nice gesture, for all that it made Jaxon feel even stupider. And bewildered. Mostly because, well. The note, from what he made out, was this:

I am sorry. I do not want to take up your time. But I want to talk to you. If you want to talk to me, call this: and then a number anytime today or Sunday. It will help me talk to you.

I know you work. If you have more time on a weekday, this is my cell: and then a different number, followed by the hardest two sentences, Mostly I text. But you can call if that is better.

It was a cruel irony that he had so many problems with the letter x, and double letters always tripped Jaxon up.

If you are busy or do not want to talk, that is okay too.

Jaxon leaned back in his seat, staring down at the note in his lap. His first, slightly hysterical thought was that he wouldn’t have to call Tatyana and beg for her help again. His second thought was that it was weird Caleb cared so much.

Weird, but it kind of made something flutter in Jaxon’s chest anyway.

Caleb banged into his apartment and shoved his key card into its holding slot by the door. He was pretty sure one couldn’t actually pop from incandescent rage at oneself, but he still felt like he might. God, could he have come off as more condescending and pathetic? Just—every single thing that could have gone wrong had done so.

He pulled off his shoes, angrily stuffed in their shoe trees, and left them sitting in his entryway while he paced his apartment in socked feet. Part of him had known it wouldn’t go smoothly. He’d started off nervous, which never worked in his favor—stupid fucking stutter—and then the poor driver, Jaxon, had looked nervous too, like he’d expected to be fired for getting Caleb home safe and not raped when he was drunk out of his fucking mind—

Caleb dressed to dominate, he knew that. It was how he kept himself together. He knew how he looked to other people, but he hadn’t expected Jaxon to feel like he’d done something wrong. And it had startled him, already out of his comfort zone, and so in came the stutter and there was no turning back from that, not once it got fucking going, and of course, of course Jaxon was dyslexic or something, of course Caleb couldn’t just write it out and try to explain properly, thank him properly, of course he had to make Jaxon feel stupid about it, even if it was accidentally, of fucking course.

Caleb rubbed a hand over his face and tried to breathe. He’d be mute for the rest of the weekend at this rate, too busy shaking himself apart to concentrate on control, the only thing that kept the stutter down. Work was easy enough. Clipped, precise words, only speaking when needing to, able to use his face and hands and writing to communicate otherwise. His downtime made things harder, having to deal with people who didn’t know him, weren’t used to him, but people didn’t bother a man in a bespoke suit. They also didn’t approach much either, or try to converse once they found out that he didn’t. Which was fine. He was busy enough with work that he didn’t miss a relationship. Not really. And he didn’t need to talk to get invited into someone’s bed; there were plenty of other ways to communicate for that.

Jaxon had tried, though. He’d answered the little notes Caleb had written on the receipts. He’d interpreted Caleb’s nods and gestures and worked to make sense of them. He’d even been patient with the fucking stutter, waiting for Caleb to actually finish his sentences instead of trying to guess the end and hurry things along. Of course, Caleb had been a paying customer—and one who tipped well—but still. Plenty of other people weren’t patient. Hadn’t been. Or had made an attempt to be but with condescension or pity, back before Caleb had clawed his way up high and started dealing with people who knew how to school their faces.

He’d really meant for this just to be a thank-you and to move on. Tip him well to cover last night’s free ride and the wasted time today. And then Jaxon had dropped the bomb that he was illiterate. And, oh yes, he was “dumb as a brick” because he couldn’t read.

Caleb had spent his whole life fighting with a world that judged him on one single trait. Stamped stupid on his forehead in bright-red ink because he couldn’t get them to listen to what he had to say instead of how he said it. He knew what that fucking felt like. But he also knew he was a privileged bastard who’d gotten good grades without much trouble, who’d gotten into great schools as a result, who worked hard, yeah, but who’d also had the method and means to get to where he wanted to be. And he’d machine wash his waistcoat if Jaxon had had a chance for any of that. If he’d ever even been told other methods existed before the system gave up on him.

Jaxon had gotten Caleb through Terrible Tuesdays, he’d kept Caleb safe last night, and had been nothing but patient and kind and careful, and the man thought that he was as “dumb as a brick.”

Even though Caleb only felt even stupider for how things had gone today, for what had led up to it, for how he’d phrased things and made himself sound like some creeper douche bag, he . . . he really hoped Jaxon contacted him. If only so he could manage a proper apology that didn’t sound like a fucking threat.