Jackson was on his way to the kitchen to make breakfast when he saw him.

The guy from the day before was in his backyard again, dancing around the pool with his earbuds in, skimming his net across the water as he shook his hips and sang along to some classic rock song that Jackson couldn't quite place.

Jackson yanked open the sliding glass door and hollered, "Hey!"

The guy's back was facing him, and if he could hear Jackson at all over his music, he didn't jump for it. Jackson sighed and padded barefoot across the patio.

"Hey!" he repeated, rougher than the last time. The guy went rigid for a moment, his heartbeat unmistakably picking up speed. But then he was pocketing his earbuds and turning an arched brow on Jackson.

"Can I help you?" the guy asked, tone casual, like he was conducting a legitimate business and not trying to bang people's mothers.

Jackson's lip twitched. "Yeah," he said, taking a step closer. "You can tell me what you're doing here."

The guy smirked. "Well, right now I'm skimming," he said, slowly, as though he thought he was talking to a stupid person. Jackson's jaw tightened. "And a few minutes ago I was changing the filter and checking the pH, which are things I should've done yesterday, but someone went all Michael J. Fox on me."

Jackson chuckled drily. "Yet apparently you couldn't take a hint," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't want you here, and I sure as shit don't want you anywhere near my mom."

"Yeah," the guy said. "I know."

"Then why the fuck are you here?" Jackson gritted out, trying his level best not to flash his fangs again.

"Because, I don't know if you've noticed, but pool gear is actually not the cheapest thing, and I left mine here yesterday," he said, running his free hand over his mohawk absently. "And, also, contrary to what you might think, even pool cleaners can take pride in their work ethic."

Jackson blinked at him. "Work ethic? You've been trying to fuck my mom for the past week."

"Yeah," the guy conceded, "but has your pool ever looked better?"

Jackson snarled.

"Wait, wait, okay," the guy said, raising a hand in a placating gesture. "We got off to a bad start. Maybe we should try again." He stuck his hand out to Jackson. "Hey, I'm Noah Puckerman, but you can call me Puck."

Jackson eyed him with scrutiny, but he found himself shaking hands with him anyway. "Puck," he echoed, just to see how it felt on his tongue. He tightened his grip on Puck's hand. "Are we gonna have a problem?"

Puck, to his credit, didn't flinch. "I'm just here to do my job, man. I swear."

It occurred to Jackson that if he was successful in scaring Puck off for good, his mom would expect him to start cleaning the pool again, and that just simply wasn't going to happen. Besides that, Puck's heartbeat did seem to suggest that he was being forthright, so Jackson let go of his hand before he broke any fingers. "You're going to stay away from my mom, you understand? From now on all of your interactions will be with me."

"Fine by me," Puck said, wriggling his fingers and examining them with a pained look. "Ease up on the tough guy stuff, though, would you? This is my strumming hand."

Jackson's eyebrows shot up. "You play guitar?"

Puck shrugged. "Not as much as I used to," he said, turning his attention to a struggling bug on the pool's surface. Jackson watched him scoop it into the net and shake it loose onto the grass.

"Hm," Jackson said, mostly to himself. And then, because he'd been wondering since he'd heard it, "What was that song you were singing earlier?"

"You heard that?" Puck asked, surprised.

Jackson smirked. "I can hear a lot of things."

Puck stared at him, unblinking, looking very much like he was torn between being terrified and fascinated. "Oh," he said, after a prolonged silence. "Uh, it was Journey. Separate Ways."

"You sounded pretty good," Jackson admitted. "Could probably be doing a lot more than cleaning pools."

Puck chuckled. "Yeah, well, that's the dream."

"Keep your hands off my mom, and maybe you'll live to see it," Jackson said, because no amount of idle conversation would make him forget why he was standing there in the first place.

"Noted," Puck said, squinting at Jackson in the sunlight and grinning.

Jackson felt inexplicably disarmed. He didn't like it. He took a few steps back and crossed his arms over his chest again, all business. "When, uh, when should I expect you again?"

Puck chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Uh, Friday? I usually skip every other day."

"Fine," Jackson said. "I'll be here."

"It's a date," Puck said with a smirk.

Jackson rolled his eyes and walked back into the house without another word.