I turned from the window, studying the set of his shoulders—not quite rigid, but carrying the careful control that meant he was working hard to keep himself together.
“It changes some things,” I said. “Not all of them.”
Jackson was quiet for a moment, his attention on the eggs rather than my face. “Like what?” he asked finally.
“Like whether you’re staying here alone,” I said. “Like whether I’m going back to Sterling’s bunkhouse when this is over. Like whether the second coffee cup lives in the dish rack or goes back in the cabinet.”
Something in Jackson’s posture shifted—not quite a physical movement, but meant that he’d heard what I wasn’t saying. “The coffee cup stays,” he said, his voice level. “So do you. At least until we figure out what’s happening with Peterson’s network.”
It wasn’t “I want you here“ or “this is permanent” or any of the clean statements that would have made the next conversation simpler. Just “the coffee cup stays” and “so do you,” delivered from a man who measured his promises in fractions rather than wholes.
It was enough. More than enough, from a man who’d spent thirty years building his life around the absolute certainty that no one would be there to catch him if he fell.
“Eggs are ready,” Jackson said, already reaching for plates. “You want them here or at the table?”
“Table,” I said, moving toward the silverware drawer. “I’ll get forks.”
We moved through the kitchen together—Jackson with the plates, me with the forks, both of us executing the dance that had become our default. Not quite partners, not quite strangers, but something in between that I still didn’t have a clean word for.
Outside, the team continued their work—securing the perimeter, running IDs, moving the ranch to whatever condition Rawley had decided was necessary.
Inside, Jackson set two plates on the table with careful attention, then sat down across from me with his coffee and his eggs and the everything we still hadn’t said.
I looked at him across the table—the careful way he was holding himself together, the methodical attention he brought to even the smallest task, the control that meant he was carrying more than he wanted anyone to see—and felt something crack open behind my sternum that I wasn’t prepared to name.
“This is good,” I said, gesturing at the eggs with my fork. “Better than the stuff in Istanbul.”
Something that was almost a smile crossed Jackson’s face—just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth, the kind that came with genuine surprise rather than performance. “The stuff in Istanbul was barely food,” he said. “Nguyen burns water, remember?”
I laughed, the sound coming out more honest than I’d expected. “He tried to make pancakes once. They came out looking like hockey pucks. Sterling made him eat them anyway. Said it built character.”
Jackson made a sound that was almost a laugh—the sound that came from genuine amusement rather than politeness. “That’s cruel,” he said. “Even for Sterling.”
“He’s got a mean streak,” I agreed. “Comes out when he’s tired. Or hungry. Or when someone suggests we might not make it home from whatever hellhole we’ve landed in.”
We ate in comfortable silence after that—Jackson working through his eggs with methodical attention, me watching him over the rim of my coffee cup.
Outside, the team moved through their containment procedures—securing the perimeter, running IDs, moving the pieces into whatever position Rawley had decided was necessary.
Inside, we sat at the kitchen table with our coffee and our eggs and everything still sitting between us. Not quite partners, not quite strangers, but something adjacent to both that made my chest tight whenever I tried to name it.
The baby chose that moment to move—a small, insistent pressure against Jackson’s side, visible even through his flannel shirt. He set down his fork with careful attention, one hand moving to rest against the curve of his stomach without appearing to decide to put it there.
“Strong today,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Probably the adrenaline. Doctor says they respond to stress hormones. Makes them active.”
I nodded, understanding without being told that this was Jackson’s way of sharing something he still wasn’t comfortable naming—the truth that had been growing inside him for four months without his permission or participation.
“Can I?” I asked, the question coming out before I could stop it.
Jackson held my gaze for a long moment, something complicated moving behind his eyes. Then he nodded once,slow, and shifted slightly in his chair—not quite an invitation, but close enough that I counted it as one.
I reached across the table, palm up, waiting. Jackson hesitated for a fraction of a second, then placed his hand in mine—warm, callused, a man who’d spent ten years doing things most people only saw in movies.
He guided my hand to the curve of his stomach, positioning it just below his navel with careful attention. For a moment, nothing happened—just the warmth of skin under flannel, the slight firmness that hadn’t been there three months ago.
Then it came—a small, insistent pressure against my palm, a movement so deliberate it caught me off guard despite everything I’d been told to expect. Not quite a kick, not quite a roll, but something adjacent to both that made my chest tight for a second.
“Jesus,” I said, the word coming out before I could stop it.
