No one is answering the door to Jake’s mansion, so Jane lets herself in. There is almost no crime on Earth C, and so almost no one locks their door. In fact, most doors do not have locks, which has been terribly unfair to the struggling locksmith industry. Once, at John’s eighteenth birthday, Dave Strider engaged Jane in a shockingly aggressive debate about the economy in which he accused her of supporting “neoliberal corporate welfare” for pointing out this exact problem, which was... well, such a baffling incident that Jane is still thinking about it at absolutely random intervals five years later. She has an honorary business degree from almost every university on the planet. Dave hasn’t even finished middle school. What does he know about the effective and ethical rigors of corporate bailouts?

Well, Jane thinks with a heavy sigh, now that she’s not running for president, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

Jane feels rather like a princess in an animated film with the way her voice echoes up three flights of circular staircase. The mansion is dark and cramped—tall, narrow halls, gothic arches, rooms stuffed in all corners with kitschy junk. Jake has a taste for velvet paintings and faux-antique candelabras, which mesh less than harmoniously with the backdrop of his paisley wallpaper. Blue light filters in from the stained-glass windows on the top floor of the foyer where depictions of cerulean sirens lounge against surprisingly tasteful, modernist backdrops.

Jane calls his name again, lifting her skirt so that she can climb the stairs one step at a time. From the second floor, she hears a sudden and awful noise: boots scrabbling against wood, glass shattering, hard objects hitting the wall, and the unmistakable roar of a rifle firing. She sprints the rest of the staircase and runs down the hall, clack, clack, clack in her expensive—but understated—kitten heels.

The big oak door at the end of the hallway swings open, spilling orange lamplight into the darkness. Jake steps out, looking ruffled but handsome in corduroy shorts and a dress shirt buttoned up to midsternum. There is a smudge of gunpowder on his cheek. His whole face lights up when he sees Jane.

Jake grins and holds up his rifle, which is still smoking from the muzzle.

He kicks the door all the way open behind him to show what’s up. A circular sitting room festooned with Christmas lights and paper targets, all of which look as if they have been hit many times with bullets. There is a battle bot hanging out by the fireplace at the back, holding an armful of bottles and surrounded by a sea of broken glass.

He looks at her like she’s the stupid one.

Jane’s mouth opens, and then hangs there for a moment as she decides whether or not this particular conversation on household propriety is worth having. Sometimes Jake simply cannot be blamed for the foolish things he does. After all, he literally grew up in the woods.

Instead, she enters the room and takes a seat in one of the ostentatiously cushioned bergère chairs, careful to step around the puddles of cracked glass.

Jane rests her temple in her palm. Jake grabs another of his ridiculous fake-Victorian chairs by the back and swivels it around so that he’s sitting across from her.

Dirk was the one person on Earth C who took the state of the locksmith industry with the seriousness it deserved.

Jake scoffs and flops a hand. Both actions are dismissive.

Jake laughs, all uneven, and runs a hand through his attractively tousled hair.

He makes a motion like knocking back a bottle. Jane side-eyes the idling battle bot, flush with empty wine bottles, and then side-eyes Jake.

Jane frowns and leans forward on her knees so that she can examine Jake more closely. She sees it now. The unspecifically precise movement that comes from overcorrecting drunken body language, the unfocus of the eyes... That was a very detailed thesis he had on Dirk’s potential psychology, almost like he’d been giving it a good think. She knew that Jake and Dirk were not officially “together,” and had not been for some time, but their lives were still inexorably entwined on basically every level for some reason she did not understand. One might even say codependently. No matter what he said, this had to be affecting him as well.

Jane lets out a fluttering breath.

She pushes out of the chair and goes to retrieve one of the unopened wine bottles sitting over the fireplace. They’re all screw-top, because Jake isn’t that classy. In fact, he isn’t classy at all. His veneer of classiness is about as authentic as an off-brand Halloween mask. Jane has no idea why she can’t get him out of her system, even after all these years.

She braces herself on the mantle and knocks her head back, taking a long, uninterrupted swig right from the bottle.

Jane keeps gulping. She drinks until she can’t stand it, then breaks off, shaking her head and letting out an ungraceful hiss. Golly, that is cheap merlot. Her vision is already swimming. Spilling a bit of wine on herself, she spins around to stare at the silent battle bot. It’s got its hand out, waiting for her to hand over the bottle.

The battle bot tips its head at her with a click-whirr and then looks at Jake, who—traitorously—offers exactly zero backup. Dejectedly, the bot shuffles its way out of the room, but not before dropping every single one of the bottles it was holding so that they make as much noise as possible when hitting the floor. It slams the door behind it. Ah yes, Jane thinks. Scorched-earth policy. That robot was indeed programmed by Dirk Strider.

Jake is staring at Jane wide-eyed behind his spectacles.

She staggers back to her seat and takes another swig of disgusting wine.

Jane puts her face in her hand miserably.

Jane looks up at Jake from between her fingers and under her bangs.

Jake pries the wine bottle from her hand gently. He takes a drink from it, less gently.

He sounds a little... bitter? Jane blinks at him.

Her whole body is numb and floaty. Sure, she chugged the wine. But it’s strange to have gotten drunk so fast, isn’t it? Especially since she spends several nights a month drinking much harder and fancier drinks at investor dinners. Jake passes the bottle back and she takes another drink.

When did Jake scoot his chair closer? They’re sitting packed so tight now that his bare knees are brushing hers. The air between them is warm and wine-soaked. Jane takes another serious look at him, at his elegant jawline, his dark eyelashes, his handsome nose. It really is unfair that he’s so good-looking while also being so... so Jake. But this is nice, she thinks. When was the last time they talked? Really talked? It’s been such a long time that she’s almost surprised how good he’s being to her right now, considering that she walked in on him in Peak English Disaster Mode. Was it always this easy to talk to him?

Maybe because of the wine, and maybe just because she wants to, Jane reaches out and sets a hand on his thigh. She leans in closer until she can feel his breath on her face.

Jane feels herself turn red. Why did she think this would be so easy? Jake English was kind of a slut, true, but also their relationship was an emotional minefield. She slides her hand down to cup his knee, rolls her thumb into the dip of the joint there, and tries to remember the drunken advice on matters of seduction Jade gave her once when she was foolish enough to take a weekend off and go on one of her and Jake’s expeditions. She can’t for the life of her remember the substance of any of her lessons though.

Jake is still staring at her, drunk and enraptured. She ventures deeper into his personal space.

Jake slants close, casting a shadow over her face. His eyes are so green, and they’re glittering with naked adoration, for her. It’s all for her. He nudges a knuckle under her chin and tips her face towards him.

He’s so close that Jane thinks he might kiss her. She shuts her eyes and lets his husky wine-breath wash over her face.

Instead of kissing her, he says:

Jane’s mouth drops open. What was she expecting?

But Jake doesn’t register her mortification or frustration either. He just keeps smiling and gazing into her eyes, warm and drunk.

With a deep sigh, Jane shoves Jake off of her and stumbles back to where his horrendous-tasting wine is stored. She pops open a bottle of briny-smelling moscato and tips it back—this embarrassing encounter isn’t going to forget itself.