Jackson moves first.
He doesn’t even slow down as the door shuts behind us, dropping his bag somewhere near the entry without looking at it, his entire focus already fixed ahead, already pulled toward her like something inside him has been waiting for this exact moment to release.
She’s on the couch, exactly where we left her, wrapped in that blanket like she’s trying to make herself smaller inside it, her hair falling softly around her shoulders, her body angled toward the door as if she’s been listening for us.
That lands harder than it should.
The fact that she was waiting.
Jackson reaches her in seconds, his hand already lifting, already touching, brushing against her cheek, her shoulder, her arm in a way that isn’t measured or careful, but instinctive, grounding, like he needs that contact more than anything else right now.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and there’s something raw under it, something that hasn’t settled since the moment he thought he lost her.
He leans in, kisses her, and she turns into it immediately.
No hesitation.
No pause.
Just that immediate response, like she’s been holding herself in place and can finally exhale now that he’s here.
I follow a moment later, slower, more aware of what I’m stepping into, more aware of the way everything in this room feels… heightened.
For the past few days, every time I’ve touched her, I’ve been conscious of it.
Conscious of her body.
Conscious of the injury.
Conscious of the baby.
Conscious of every possible way I could hurt her if I’m not careful enough. So I’ve softened everything.
Pulled everything back.
Turned instinct into control.
And standing here now, watching her, watching the way she leans into Jackson, watching the way she needs that contact, I realize exactly what that’s done.
I haven’t just protected her. I’ve distanced myself from her.
We all have.
She looks at me when I step closer. And there’s something in that look that makes me stop.
It’s not uncertainty.
It’s not fear.
It’s… searching.
Like she’s trying to figure out which version of me she’s going to get. And that hits harder than anything else has today.
So I don’t hover.
I don’t hesitate.
I close the space between us fully, my hand coming up to cup her face, not carefully, not tentatively, but with intention, grounding her attention on me instead of letting her sit in that space between us.
