Page 16 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
Jack closes the distance, slow and careful, like he’s reading the space between us for permission. He stops just close enough for me to feel his warmth.
"You don’t have to be okay right now," he says, his voice a whisper meant only for me. "But you don’t have to go through this alone, either."
His words sit heavy in the air. I should walk away. I should put distance between us and pretend like tonight didn’t mean something. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I nod again, slower this time, my voice quiet. “Stay.”
He doesn’t ask what I mean. He just nods, moving to the living room with a stillness that feels reverent. I turn off the lights, the room dimming to a softness that fits the hollow in my chest.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to. I sit beside him on the couch, knees tucked to my chest, and after a beat, Jack reachesfor my hand. His fingers wrap around mine, solid and steady. And in the quiet hum of the city outside, I finally let myself lean in. Not into the kiss. Not into the want. But into the truth of it, that whatever this is, it’s real. And I’m not alone anymore.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. His thumb moves gently over mine, not to comfort, not to calm, but simply to remind me he’s still here. That he didn’t run. That he stayed.
I shift slightly, leaning into the couch cushion until our shoulders touch. The heat of his arm against mine sends a quiet ripple through me, nothing urgent, nothing dangerous. Just presence. Steady, grounded, necessary.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I whisper.
“I won’t,” he says. “Not unless you want me to.”
We sit there for a long time. I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if I’ll break again tomorrow or if I’ll wake up and find that strength has quietly returned to me overnight. But for now, I rest my head on Jack’s shoulder, and he lets me. No promises. No pretenses. Just this moment, carved out from the chaos, real and warm and safe.
The lights from the street below flicker softly across the ceiling as we sit in that hush. The longer I stay, the more I realize I’m not bracing for impact. I’m not shrinking away from the silence or flinching at shadows. I’m just breathing, finally breathing, beside someone who feels like home.
Jack shifts just slightly, adjusting the throw blanket around my shoulders like it’s second nature, his hand lingering for half a second too long. It’s not a move of seduction, it’s care. Conscious, and deep. I’ve spent so long waiting for the next crack in the floorboards, the next betrayal, that I almost forgot what it feels like to be treated like something fragile without being dismissed.
His body is relaxed now, but I can tell sleep isn’t coming easy for him either. We’re both a little haunted, alittle threadbare. But under the wreckage, something steady is forming. Something I don’t want to run from. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t press. He just sits there with me in the quiet, and when my eyes finally flutter shut, I feel his hand tighten slightly around mine.
That’s the last thing I remember before sleep claims me: Jack’s grip, sure and patient. Like a promise. Like he’s telling me I can fall, and he’ll still be there when I wake up.
I stir once in the middle of the night, unsure of what woke me. The city noise is quieter now, muffled beneath the hour. Jack hasn’t moved. He’s still beside me, still holding my hand. His breathing is slow, his head tilted back against the couch cushion. I watch him for a moment, the soft lines of his profile limned by the streetlight glow. Even in sleep, he looks guarded, like peace is something he doesn’t quite trust. I know that feeling too well.
I adjust the blanket around him this time, careful not to wake him. Then I lean back down, my head resting closer to his chest. His heart beats steady beneath my ear, and something in me eases. The storm can wait till morning. For now, we have this, a breath, a heartbeat, a pause in the chaos.
I close my eyes again and let myself believe it might be enough. Because for once, enough doesn’t feel like settling. It feels like relief. It feels like the beginning of something I didn’t think I’d get to have. And this time, I’m not letting fear write the ending.
10
JACK
The first thing I notice is warmth. The faint weight of Ivy’s head against my shoulder, the softness of her blanket still draped over us, and the quiet hush of a city just waking. For a few rare seconds, I don’t move. I let myself feel it, her breathing, steady now, unguarded. My hand is still wrapped around hers, our fingers linked like neither of us wanted to let go in the night.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake her. She stirs anyway, eyes fluttering open, blue meeting mine in the thin morning light.
“Hey,” I murmur.
“Hey,” she whispers back, her voice still heavy with sleep. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she sits up slowly, tucking her knees beneath the blanket. The sight of her like this, barefoot, hair tousled, the edges of last night still clinging to her, does something to me I don’t have words for.
I stand, stretching the stiffness from my back. “I should go. Change, grab a shower before work.”
She watches me, and for a second I think she might ask me to stay. Instead, she nods, soft and reluctant. “Okay. I’ll see you there.”
I lean down, brushing a hand over her hair, not quite a kiss, not quite enough. “Ivy…” My voice falters. I don’t want to ruin this fragile peace with too much. “Thank you. For last night.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady, unflinching. “Me too.”
I let the words sit between us, then force myself to step away. The hallway feels colder than it should as I close her door behind me.
Back in my apartment, the silence hits hard. Sterile. Empty. I exhale, dragging a hand down my face, but the memory of her head on my shoulder clings stubbornly. The way she let me stay. The way she didn’t pull back. It’s enough to make me believe this isn’t just adrenaline and chaos.
I shower, dress, but I can’t shake the heaviness in my chest. Last night wasn’t just about me. It was about her, what she’s been through, what Derek still tries to take from her. Which is why I reach for my phone.
