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Despite my throbbing head and the fact that all I want to do is drag Jackson further into bed and curl into his side, I get the overwhelming urge to explain. Explain what happened tonight, how I ended up here. And find out why and how the hell he's here.
When I open my mouth to do just that, though, I’m cut off by a quick shake of his head. Shoving me aside gently, Possibly Fake Jackson slips beneath the covers. When he stretches an arm out towards me, I take his cue, wasting no time attaching myself to his side, burying my head in the crook of his neck, hooking a leg around his, pressing myself as close as humanly possible. Both arms hugging me tight, Feels Real Jackson rubs soothing motions down the length of me, from the curve of my neck along my thigh, and the continuous, monotonous movements do a world of good in lulling me back to sleep.
I fight it off, though, wanting to savor this confusing, but so fucking needed, moment. Two days and I missed him a pathetic amount. I missed the affection, the companionship, but mostly I just missed him. And he couldn't have magically appeared at a better time.
Inhaling deeply, I swear my headache eases as my lungs fill with that familiar spring-like scent. Propping my chin on his chest, I trace the contours of his face with my eyes, noting the dark circles beneath his closed eyes and his even messier than usual hair.
As though he feels my gaze on his face, his eyes flutter open, a lazy smile already tugging on his lips. “You're staring.”
“You're in New York.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Figured you could use a hug,” is his confusing, entirely too-simple response. When I frown, he adds with a sigh, “Owen called.”
That’s… interesting. Very, very interesting.
And concerning.
“What did he tell you?”
“Not much.” Jackson accompanies what is probably a lie with a kiss dropped to my forehead. “Just that you had a bad night.”
“You flew across the country because I had a bad night?”
“I flew across the country because I freaked the fuck out when you weren’t responding and then some guy called me in the middle of the night and said you were in the hospital.”
An embarrassed wince crumples my face. Making him worry for no good reason is bad enough. Inspiring him to jump on a plane in the middle of the night and fly for five-and-a-half hours to a whole different time zone for no good reason?
Mortifying.
Jackson smoothes out the wrinkles marring my forehead, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “You would've done the same.”
Except I wouldn't have. The thought never would’ve crossed my mind. Just another reason why Jackson is infinitely a better person than I am, and another reason why I don't deserve the sweet man lying beside me.
“What about your sisters?” God, they probably hate me. All they had with their brother was a measly weekend and I effectively stole it away.
Fingers graze my upper back, cupping the nape of my neck and squeezing comfortingly.“They didn't need me. You did.”
A lump forms in my throat, accompanied by an annoying, unexpected dampness in my eyes. “Stop being so sweet.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm hungover and it makes me want to cry.”
Laughter washes over me, heartier this time. That big, booming one that I feel in my bones, in my stomach, in my chest, and kind of makes me want to cry even more. Swallowing hard, I discreetly swipe at my eyes and attempt to cover up my embarrassing sniffling with a cough. Still, my whispered 'thank you' comes out entirely too wobbly for my liking.
“I told you,” Jackson says gently. “You can always call me. If you need me, I'm there. And if your ex fuck buddy calls me, I'll be there a lot quicker.”
He’s joking, I can hear it, but nevertheless, I find myself promising, “Nothing happened.”
“I know.” There’s nothing but pure conviction in his voice. “I trust you.”
Three simple words yet they carry such profound weight.
Especially after last night.
