Jack still couldnât say what it was about this house that kept him. He was not a man to want people in close proximity to himself; the fact that he had his own room was the only reason he had made it this long. That being said, he was still more often than not surrounded by people. Yet he stayed. Four years he had stayed, and he entirely blamed it upon the fact that he liked routine and did not care for change. He was able to leave, of course, but he had carved out for himself a comfortable rut and he didnât necessarily want to disturb it, even if there were aspects of it he didnât care for.Â
Besides that, he always had his bar. The Crusty Lemon really only had enough business to keep itself running, and that was enough for him. It was entirely out of place in the City of Lights, more of a pub in a city full of cafes and nightclubs, with very little in-between. But it was a small flavor of home, and the fact that it had only a few regulars on any given weeknight was something Jack liked about it. It was routine. What he did not like was intermingling this work with the little bit of teaching he did at the house, and so the presence of another resident of the house sitting at the bar was not what he wanted to see. He came up alongside, taking the far corner stool and sitting down, as a drink appeared in front of him by a well-trained bartender. âThereâs still no discounts for other occupants of Les Amis, and youâve managed to pick out and sit on my stool. Did you come here specifically to bother me, or was it on accident?âÂ
