Jackson made a sound that was almost a laugh—the second real one I’d gotten out of him today, the kind that came from genuine surprise rather than performance. Something in the room shifted immediately—the air a fraction less careful, the distance between us a fraction less managed.
“That’s not happening,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “No kid of mine is getting named after processed grains, regardless of how many vitamins they claim to have added.”
“I’m just saying there’s a spectrum,” I replied, letting my shoulder press against his where we stood at the crib rail. “Somewhere between ‘honors a fallen comrade’ and ‘will get you beaten up at recess’ is probably the sweet spot.”
Jackson cut me another look, this one closer to actual amusement. “You’ve given this some thought,” he said, not quite a question.
I shrugged, the movement careful to keep our shoulders touching. “Had some time on my hands. Istanbul safe house wasn’t exactly a tourist destination.”
We stayed in the nursery longer than either of us had planned—twenty minutes stretching to thirty, then forty, the conversation loosening slightly around the edges as we traded a few more name possibilities.
I leaned into the worse ones deliberately, watching Jackson’s face for that moment when his mouth would curve despite his best efforts to keep it neutral.
“Absolutely not,” he said for the third time in ten minutes, shaking his head at my suggestion of a name that had approximately twelve consonants and no vowels that an English speaker would recognize. “I’m not naming a child after a mountain in Kazakhstan, Cruz. That’s not happening.”
“It’s not just a mountain,” I argued, enjoying the way Jackson’s eyebrows drew together when he was trying not to smile. “It’s where the Soviets tested their first nuclear device. Historical significance. Educational opportunity.”
“Educational for who?” Jackson asked, the corner of his mouth definitely curving now. “The kid’s going to spend his entire childhood spelling it for substitute teachers and DMV clerks.”
“It builds character,” I said, and Jackson made that sound again—not quite a laugh, but close enough that I counted it as a win.
The morning stretched toward noon around us, light moving across the nursery floor in a slow sweep that turned the crib from gold to amber to the deep brown that meant full day had arrived. Somewhere downstairs, a clock chimed the hour—eleven distinct tones carrying up the stairs and through the half-open door.
We should have gone down for lunch. Should have moved on to whatever came next in the careful accounting of this day—the conversation about logistics and timelines and where, exactly, I’d be sleeping now that I was back. Should have startedmaking plans that came with a child due in three months and a relationship we’d never properly named.
Instead, we stood at the crib rail with our shoulders touching. Close enough that I could feel the tension in Jackson’s frame—not the full-body rigidity of earlier, but a careful control that spoke to how hard he was working to keep himself together.
I looked at his profile—the straight line of his nose, the firm set of his jaw, the thin scar that traced his temple and disappeared into his hairline. At the careful way he was holding himself, like he was afraid something would break if he moved too quickly or spoke too directly.
My hand rested on the crib rail next to his, our knuckles close enough to almost touch. Not quite claiming, not quite connecting, just the physical fact of two people standing in the same space, making the calculations that came with proximity.
The question sat in my throat, too present to ignore, too complicated to force into language: whether Jackson actually wanted me in this life the way I wanted to be in it or whether I was simply the man who’d shown up and refused to leave. Whether the nursery he’d built and the plans he’d made included space for someone besides himself and the child or whether I’d be fitting myself into corners not designed to hold me.
I wasn’t going to ask it today. Wasn’t going to push for answers Jackson might not have found yet, for promises he might not be ready to make. Wasn’t going to be the thing that tipped whatever balance he’d found in the six weeks I’d been gone.
But it was there—the question and the uncertainty of standing in a room built for a future I hadn’t been part of planning.
Jackson’s jaw was set, his eyes on the empty crib mattress, and the slight tension in his hand on the rail told me he knewthe question was there too. Knew it and was carrying it the same way he carried everything—with careful attention and absolute control of a man who’d spent thirty years being exactly what everyone else needed him to be.
We stood like that for another long moment—the two of us looking down at the empty crib, the morning fully arrived around us, the valley spread out below—neither of us speaking, neither of us moving to break whatever was happening between us.
Chapter Twelve
~ Jackson ~
I stood at the kitchen counter in the early morning light, one hand braced against the edge, the other reaching for my coffee mug. The second one caught my eye—again—sitting in the dish rack where it had been for three weeks now. Blue ceramic, no handle, a chip in the rim I hadn’t noticed until the fourth day it was there. I’d stopped moving it after week one. Just picked it up, washed it, and put it right back where it came from—a decision I’d made without appearing to make one at all.
The coffee was still hot—I’d set the timer last night, another new habit—and I took a long swallow, leaning my hip against the counter while I watched the valley through the window. The mountains to the east caught the first light, turning from black to deep purple to the green-brown that meant full morning wasn’t far off.
Behind me, the house was quiet in the way that told me Cruz was still asleep. Not the careful silence of a house that contained one person, but the paused quality of a space with two bodies, one of them motionless.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days since he’d walked through my front door and seen the flannel shirt that didn’t hide anything anymore. Twenty-one days since I’d shown him the nursery and explained what was happening—the tests, the results, the complete unraveling of everything he’d thought he knew.
Twenty-one days of Cruz in the farmhouse with his gear and his routines and the way he moved through a space like he belonged there, even when he was just passing through to the bathroom.
The second coffee cup had been the first item. Then the jump bag by the door—black nylon, military-grade, the kind I’d carried for ten years without ever thinking twice about it. Ithad appeared at the end of week one, positioned just inside the threshold where the porch roof kept the rain off, close enough to the door that Cruz could grab it on his way out without breaking stride.
I’d noticed it immediately—had clocked its exact position, its distance from the door, the way Cruz had placed it where the evening light wouldn’t hit it directly. Had filed all of it the way I filed everything, then gone about my day without mentioning it.
