Her eyes flick to mine, then away.
She climbs into bed on the far side, tugging the quilt up, trying to look casual.
She fails.
I turn off the lamp, leaving only the faint light from the living room spilling under the door. I slide into bed on my side, careful not to touch her.
The mattress dips.
The air shifts.
Stella exhales, shaky. “Jack?” she whispers into the dark.
“Yeah.”
“I’m… really here.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you’re… really here.”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “I feel safe.”
The words hit me harder than any bullet ever has.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, every muscle taut, every instinct awake—not just for danger outside, but for the warmth beside me, the quiet trust in her voice. “I’ve got you,” I murmur.
Stella shifts slightly, the smallest movement, but it’s enough that her knee brushes mine under the covers.
A spark shoots straight through my bloodstream.
I clench my jaw, keeping my hands to myself.
Stella doesn’t move away. She whispers, almost too quiet to hear, “Goodnight, Jack.”
My voice is rough. “Goodnight, Stella.”
And I stay awake long after her breathing evens out—watching the door, listening to the night, fighting my own body like it’s the most dangerous thing in the room.
Because the truth is simple:
If someone tries to take her from me— they’ll have to kill me first.
SEVEN
STELLA
I wake up warm.
Notin-love-and-being-spoonedwarm—don’t get excited. Jack stayed on his side like a gentleman. But the bed is still warm on the other side, and the room smells faintly like pine and clean laundry and… him.
I stare at the ceiling for a second, disoriented, then the memory of last night slides back in like a cold hand.
Fireworks. Jack’s voice in my ear.I’m taking you home.
