Page 49 of He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

“Make yourself at home,” Jack says, gesturing to the living room. “I’ll grab you that shirt.”

As he disappears down a hallway, I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything. My stare roams over the bookshelves, taking in titles ranging from classic literature to modern thrillers. A framed photo catches my attention—Jack, younger and sun-kissed, arm slung around an older woman who bears a striking resemblance to him. Mother and son, I assume.

“Here we go,” Jack’s voice startles me out of my observations. He’s holding out a crisp white button-down. “It’s the smallest I’ve got, but it should do the trick.”

Our fingers brush as I take the shirt from him, looking around for what I had expected to be greeted with sloppy kisses and large paws. “Where’s your dog?”

He freezes with a look that almost appears to be confusion. “Dog?”

For a minute, I second guess my memory. But I clearly remember him walking his dog when we first met. Hung over or not—but wait. I thought he lived in my neighborhood.

“Oh, right,” Jack says, looking slightly flustered for the first time. “That wasn’t my dog. I house- and dog-sit for a friend in the crew sometimes.”

I nod slowly, trying to process this information through my hangover fog. Something about his explanation doesn’t quite sit right, but I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s the lingering confusion from last night clouding my judgment.

“Oh I see. I just assumed,” I mumble, clutching the shirt to my chest. “Um, where can I...?”

Jack points down the hallway. “Bathroom’s the second door on the left.”

I shuffle toward the bathroom, my mind racing. As I close the door behind me, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wince. My makeup is smudged, my hair a tangled mess, and my blouse is a disaster. I look exactly how I feel—like I’ve been hit by a truck.

With shaky hands, I unbutton my ruined blouse and peel it off, tossing it into the sink. I splash some cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. I quickly put on Jack’s shirt, rolling up the sleeves and tying it at the waist. It smells like him.

Taking a deep breath, I step out of the bathroom. Jack is in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of coffee. He looks up as I enter, his eyes widening slightly.

“Wow,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “You make that shirt look good.” He extends a mug of coffee to me. “I can’t make your latte, but this coffee does have creamer and sugar.”

Man, this guy really is perfect.

I take the mug gratefully, wrapping my hands around its warmth. “Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. The coffee is rich and smooth, infinitely better than what I usually make at home.

Jack leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of his own mug. There’s something in his gaze that makes me feel both exposed and intrigued. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words.

“You clearly like Christmas,” I say, taking in more of his decorations. There is a Charles Dickens village set up on a side table, complete with tiny Victorian-era figurines and miniature snow-covered buildings.

“It was my mother’s favorite holiday.” Jack’s eyes soften at the mention of his mother. “Yeah, she always went all out for Christmas. The little village was her favorite.”

I nod, feeling a pang of sympathy. The photo I saw earlier flashes in my mind. “Is that her in the picture on your bookshelf?”

Jack’s smile turns bittersweet. “Yeah, that’s her. She passed away when I was fifteen.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.

“The village was the one thing of hers that I managed to keep hold of after I went into the foster system. So, I guess you could say it’s important to show it off and make the place festive.”

“I’m sure she’s happy you are.”

He shrugs, takes in the decorations and says, “I hope so.”

I instinctively reach out to touch his arm, moved by his moment of vulnerability. The moment my fingers make contact with his skin, I feel a jolt of electricity. Jack’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the world seems to stand still.

I wait. And wait. And like the times before... nothing.

Yeah, I think it’s fair to say that we crossed into friend zone. And maybe that isn’t a bad thing. He’s as vanilla as the flavor of creamer he put in my coffee, and after last night with WinterWatcher... I’m clearly as black as the coal that I deserve in my stocking.

“I, um, I should probably get going,” I stammer, setting down the coffee mug. “I don’t want to keep Sloane waiting for long. Thank you for the shirt and the coffee.”

Jack nods, his expression unreadable. “Of course. Any time.”

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