Page 20 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
No towel. No warning. Just Jack in all his glory, water still dripping from his pumpkin face and running down his chest, over the defined muscles of his abdomen, down to….
Locke’s brain had short-circuited.
He’d known Jack was tall. Knew he was built. But seeing him like this, every inch of him on display, was something else entirely. The carved pumpkin head looked almost absurd perched atop a body that could’ve been sculpted by someone with a very generous imagination and absolutely no sense of modesty.
And Jack was... generous. Very generous. Proportional to his height, Locke’s frazzled brain had supplied helpfully. Very proportional.
“Good morning,” Jack had said, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t standing there naked and dripping in the doorway.
Locke had made a sound. Not a word. Just a sound. Somewhere between a squeak and a dying gasp.
“I’ll just…I’m….bathroom…“ Locke had gestured vaguely, his face burning, his eyes determinedly fixed somewhere over Jack’s left shoulder.
Jack had simply walked past him, still naked, still unbothered. “It’s all yours.”
Locke had locked himself in the bathroom and stood under cold water for twenty minutes.
They hadn’t talked about it. Jack because he clearly didn’t see what the big deal was because deities apparently didn’t do modesty, and Locke because he couldn’t form coherent sentences about it without his face catching fire.
But now, every morning when Jack emerged from the bedroom fully dressed, Locke knew. Knew exactly what was under those robes. Knew exactly what he was waking up pressed against every morning when Jack inevitably migrated across the bed during the night.
It was fine. Totally fine. Locke was handling it great.
He was handling it terribly.
Living with Jack had become an exercise in constant low-level awareness. The way Jack moved through the apartment like he owned it—which, given the transformation, he kind of did. The way he cooked breakfast every morning with the focus of someone creating art. The way his carved expression would soften when he looked at Locke, then quickly shift back to neutral like he’d been caught at something.
The way Locke had started looking forward to those soft expressions.
He was so screwed.
Now, standing in the old Briar House on the edge of town, hanging fake cobwebs while Jack lounged against the wall watching him, Locke was trying very hard not to think about any of that.
Rowan had volunteered them for haunted house duty. Well, volunteered Locke. Jack had been automatically included as Locke’s “roommate” and “helper.” The town had fully bought their cover story, which would’ve been great except it meant everyone kept assigning them joint tasks like they were a unit.
Which they kind of were, Locke supposed. Just not the way people thought.
The Briar House was perfect for a haunted house; genuinely creepy even in daylight, with its peeling wallpaper and creaking floors. Someone had donated a bunch of Halloween animatronics and decorations. Locke was setting them up while Jack... observed.
“I got it!” Jack said suddenly.
Locke nearly dropped Jason Voorhees. “Please don’t conjure your throne here.”
“I told you I wasn’t. Although this place could use a bit of elegance.”
“Jack, not now. I’m trying to make this place look actually scary.”
“You have no idea what I was about to say.”
Locke turned to look at him. Jack’s carved expression was doing that thing it did when he was pleased with himself. Never a good sign.
“I’ve learned by now that whenever you have an idea it ends with disaster.”
“Technically the only one between us who has been a walking disaster is you, but you don’t see me bringing it up.”
“You just did.”
“To defend myself. But never mind all of that. I know why those attempts failed.”
