I whip around. He’s shirtless again, jeans dusty, sawdust clinging to his skin like a second layer. His eyes, though—those are pure fire. Cold and hot all at once.
“Jack—”
He walks forward, slow and steady. "Your parents came to visit?"
My mom’s mouth drops open. She’s not used to men like Jack. Men who don’t flinch. Don’t grovel. Don’t give a damn about their curated disappointment.
“Jack, please,” I say, stepping between them.
But he doesn’t look at them. He only looks at me.
And suddenly I know.
He heard enough.
“Inside,” he says.
“Jack—”
“Now, Holly.”
I glance at my parents. My mom looks scandalized. My dad just folds his arms.
I walk inside.
He follows.
The moment the door shuts, it’s like the oxygen gets sucked out of the room.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares. Hard. Like he’s stripping away every layer I’ve ever used to protect myself.
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
“They don’t know the whole story,” I whisper.
“But you do.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
I swallow. “I wanted to. I planned to?—”
He steps closer. “Don’t. Don’t stand there and feed me pretty lies like they’re easier to swallow than the truth.”
“I was scared, Jack.”
“Of what?” His voice cracks. “That I’d be a bad father? That I wouldn’t care? That I’d walk away?”
I shake my head, eyes burning. “That you wouldn’twanther. That you’d forget again. That it would hurt worse the second time.”
Silence.
Then he speaks, low and dark.
“I can’t believe you're the girl that I wrote letters to for all those years. There was something about you that was so familiar–so easy–and now I know why. I’ve been lied to before, Holly. But this—this cuts deeper than anything.”
My breath hitches. “Don’t say that.”
