Somewhere in the middle of him describing the ultrasound—the small shape on the screen, the doctor pointing to it while Jackson sat in a paper gown telling her she was mistaken—something in my chest broke open that had nothing to do with anger or fear.
A baby. My baby. The physical impossibility that had rewritten Jackson’s entire understanding of himself.
I was going to be a father. The thought arrived as a physical fact, warm and specific, and I was not prepared for how much I wanted it, how completely unprepared I was for wanting something this un-mission-shaped.
Jackson was still talking—something about the clinic in town and the follow-up appointment schedule—but I’d stoppedhearing the individual words. Just sat at the kitchen table with my coffee going cold between my hands and my eyes on his face, trying to make sense of what was happening.
He looked different—not just the physical changes, but something in the set of his shoulders, the way he held himself. Like he’d made a decision and was living with its consequences, the way he did with everything.
The way he’d done with me, from the moment I’d stepped onto his porch with a jump bag over my shoulder and no explanation for why I was there.
I looked at him across the table—the careful way he was holding himself together, the flannel shirt, the hand that had drifted to rest against his own stomach without Jackson appearing to notice he’d done it—and reached across the table.
I covered Jackson’s other hand, the one resting on the wood, not the one on his stomach, because that one was not mine to claim yet and I knew it. His skin was warm under my palm, the calluses familiar from a hundred different moments across the past eight months.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. Once, flat, no theater. The kind of promise that wasn’t one—just a statement of fact, the same way “the sky is blue” or “Montana is cold in October” were statements of fact.
Jackson held my gaze for a long moment, jaw tight, something complicated moving behind his eyes. Then something in his face loosened by a fraction—the first real loosening since I’d walked through the door—and he turned his hand under mine, fingers curling against my palm in a gesture so careful it made my chest tight.
“Can I see it?” I asked, the question coming out before I’d fully decided to ask it. “The nursery, I mean. If you’ve started one.”
Jackson blinked, clearly not expecting that specific question. Then something that was almost a smile crossed his face—just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth, the kind that came with genuine surprise rather than performance—and he pushed back his chair.
“Yeah,” he said, already moving toward the hallway. “Come on.”
I followed without hesitation, my coffee forgotten on the table, my eyes on the set of Jackson’s shoulders as he led me through the house toward whatever came next.
Chapter Eleven
~ Cruz ~
I followed Jackson up the stairs, both hands shoved deep in my pockets because I didn’t know what else to do with them. He moved with the same deliberate efficiency he did everything—no wasted motion, no unnecessary words.
He hadn’t said “follow me” or “it’s upstairs” or any of the things people normally said when showing someone through their house. Just turned and started walking, the way he always did when he’d made a decision and was executing it.
The upstairs hallway was short—just two bedrooms and a bathroom branching off from a landing big enough for one person to stand comfortably.
Jackson went to the end of the hall, hand on the doorknob, and paused with his back to me. Just for a second, but I caught it—the slight straightening of his spine, the careful inhale before he pushed the door open and stepped aside.
The nursery door swung open, and I stopped dead in the doorway.
The room was finished. Completely finished. Not a work in progress or a collection of unpacked boxes or a half-painted project. A nursery. Full and complete and already in use, even with the crib still empty.
Warm yellow-green walls—not the bright primary colors people usually went for, but something softer, a shade that reminded me of new leaves in spring. The crib sat angled in the far corner, positioned to catch the morning light from the east-facing window. White with natural wood trim, sturdy as hell—the kind of construction that would hold a ten-year-old if necessary. Next to it, a rocking chair with a handmade look, its wood a shade darker than the crib trim, a neatly folded blanketdraped over one arm—faded blue with a geometric pattern along the edges.
Shelves lined the wall opposite the crib, filled with soft things in greens and yellows and warm neutrals—stuffed animals with no hard eyes or loose parts, blankets folded with military precision, the kind of organization that came from thinking about it carefully rather than just filling available space.
In the corner by the closet, a cedar-lined toy box with brass hinges, big enough to hold serious play but small enough that a child could reach inside without climbing. The lid was partly open, showing a glimpse of wooden blocks and what looked like building toys—nothing plastic, nothing that required batteries or made electronic noise.
The bassinet sat within arm’s reach of the rocking chair, positioned so someone sitting could reach in without getting up. White muslin hung from its frame, the kind that would let air through but keep light out.
My hands stayed in my pockets. My jaw did something I couldn’t stop—tightened, then loosened, then tightened again. A physical response I hadn’t authorized and couldn’t override.
Jackson stood just inside the room, arms crossed, watching me the way he watched everything—reading, cataloging, waiting. His face gave away nothing, but his shoulders were tense under the flannel, and he’d shifted his weight to his right foot—the stance he took when he was braced for something, but trying not to show it.
I stepped inside without being asked.
The room smelled like cedar and the clean that came from fresh paint properly cured. No baby powder, no diapers, no trace of the person who would actually use the space. Just the furniture and the careful planning and the absolute certainty that this would happen, had to happen, regardless of whether I came back from Istanbul or not.
