Page 63 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Jackson smiles, although it looks strained. “Guess I owe him big.”
Dinner continues with deceptive ease. The twins chatter about school. Miss Taylor replenishes water glasses. Jackson slips effortlessly into dad mode: asking about school, letting Liam lean against his side.
And I sit across from him, forcing myself to eat, though what little appetite I had vanished the second he walked in.
Every glance he avoids feels like a conversation we’re both too afraid to start. His silence wraps around the room louder than any words could. I find myself watching his hands, remembering how they felt last night on my skin.
Now, he won’t even meet my eyes for more than a second.
I thought coming home might mean a smile. A word. Some unspoken acknowledgment.
Instead, we go through the motions.
And whatever this thing is between us, it stays untouched on the table, right next to my uneaten breadsticks.
After dinner, I clear plates just to have something to do. Jackson helps get the twins ready for bed. His voice low and patient, the sound of quiet giggles drifting down the hall.
When the dishes are rinsed, I slip out the back door.
The porch is dim, the sky soft with the fading light of dusk. I settle into the swing, pulling my knees to my chest. The night is cool and I shiver, tugging the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands.
The one I pulled on this morning after waking up alone.
I lean my head against the back of the swing and close my eyes.
Last night feltreal. Unplanned, but steady in a way that caught me off guard. Like something we both reached for without meaning to. Like something we both needed.
And now I’m left wondering if I read it wrong.
The porch light clicks on behind me.
My heart rate spikes and I don’t move.
A moment later, the door creaks open, followed by the soft thud of bare feet against the wood.
I know it’s him before he says a word.
The swing dips slightly as Jackson eases down beside me.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just sits there, a careful distance between us, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like we’re both trying to figure out how to exist in the same space again.
“I didn’t mean to disappear this morning,” he murmurs quietly. “I just… needed air. Time to think.”
I don’t respond right away, giving him space. Jackson’s quiet, his profile etched in the soft porch light.
“I thought this would be a simple plan,” he admits. “But nothing about this feels simple. Not after last night.”
My stomach knots. I turn toward him, heart pounding. “Are you saying we should stop?”
"I just need time… to process everything." He pauses, his eyes searching mine with a vulnerability I hadn’t expected. "I still want to help you. That hasn’t changed."
I feel something stir in me. Hope, maybe. But I can’t tell if it’s enough to bridge the gap between us, or if he’s just being kind. My pulse quickens, unsure of how to read him.
What did last night mean to him? Is he pulling back because he’s scared, or because he regrets it?
I want to ask, but the words die in my throat.
We fall quiet again, the only sound is the swing creaking beneath us.
