Page 28 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
My mouth lifts in a tired smile.
He crosses the room and extends the plate. I take a chocolate chip from the top. Still warm. I take a bite and close my eyes for a second.
“Okay,” I murmur. “She really is magic.”
Jackson grins.
He doesn’t leave right away. Just stands there, like he’s not sure if I need space or company.
“Thanks,” I say finally. “For yesterday. For everything.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he replies. “But I’ll take it.”
He turns, broad shoulders cutting a solid silhouette in the doorway. There’s a quiet strength in the way he moves. Steady, unhurried. Like he’s built to carry weight and never complains about it.
He glances back from the hallway, lifts a hand in a small wave.
“Goodnight, Ava.”
“Goodnight,” I say softly.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just gives me one last look, and something about it sends a shiver down my spine. Then he turns and disappears down the hall, leaving a trace of warmth in his wake.
I stare at the cookie crumbs in my lap, but they aren’t what’s holding my attention.
It’s him. The way he stepped in. The way he offered without pushing.
And the way this fake dating idea won’t leave my head.
God help me, I’m actually considering it.
Chapter Eight
JACKSON
I’m up before the sun.
Game day mornings always start like this. Quiet, methodical. I like the stillness. No distractions, no noise. Just me, the hum of the coffee maker, and the steady rhythm of routine I’ve built over years of chasing the puck.
But today, it’s not just the game on my mind.
As I move through the kitchen, I catch the signs: small, ordinary things that shouldn’t mean anything. Ava’s sweatshirt draped over the back of a chair. A coffee mug in the sink that’s not mine. Subtle shifts. Little threads weaving her into this place.
Into my space.
The twins aren’t up yet, so I move quietly, pulling protein powder from the pantry and adding it to my blender. I start a pot of oatmeal. Familiar. Focused. But then I glance toward the hallway.
And see her.
Ava appears in the doorway, long dark hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a soft pink hoodie over her leggings. Her eyes are still a little sleep-soft, but she smiles when she sees me.
“You’re loud in the morning,” she murmurs.
I smirk. “This is me being quiet.”
She pads in barefoot and starts helping without being asked: grabbing bowls from the cabinet, slicing a banana. It’s seamless, easy. Like she’s done it a hundred times.
Like she belongs here.
