“Like rest,” he corrects. “Like don’t be predictable. Like stay where I can control variables.”
“I’m not a variable,” I mutter.
Jack’s gaze lifts, calm but firm. “Yes, you are.”
I huff. “Love that for me.”
Jack stands, taking his plate to the sink, then checks the window again. “Today, you work. You plan lessons. You keep your mind busy. I keep you safe.”
I blink. “You want me to… do lesson plans while you patrol this cabin like a bear?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him. “Do you know anything about kindergarten lesson plans?”
He glances at me. “No.”
“Then you’re about to learn,” I say, standing. “Because if I’m stuck here, I’m not wasting a day. Tomorrow I have to teach.”
Jack’s gaze turns hard. “Tomorrow I’m going with you.”
I stop short. “You’re going to—what?”
“I’m going with you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. “I’ll be on the school grounds.”
“I can’t bring a bodyguard to school,” I whisper, horrified. “The parents will riot. Principal Hanover will call the superintendent. Someone will make a Facebook post.”
Jack’s eyes don’t change. “Do you want to be alive to read the Facebook post?”
My mouth opens. Closes.
Damn him.
He softens his voice slightly. “We’ll do it discreet. I won’t disrupt. But I’m not letting you walk into a predictable routine without me.”
I rub my forehead. “This is insane.”
“It’s reality,” he says. “And you don’t get to downplay it.”
I glare at him. “Stop using my own words against me.”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “No.”
The restof the day is… weirdly domestic.
We exist in the same space like a couple without any of the couple privileges.
Jack checks the perimeter every hour. He walks the property line like he’s counting trees and plotting a war. He checks locks. He checks windows. He listens like the wind might whisper names.
I sit at the table with my laptop, trying to pretend my normal life still exists.
Lesson plans don’t care that I’m in a safe house.
Kindergarteners will still need to know their letters. They will still need to cut paper hearts. They will still ask questions like “Why does the moon follow me?” and “Can I marry my dog?”
I try to focus. I really do.
But every time Jack moves behind me—boots soft on the floor, his presence sliding past like heat—I lose my train of thought.
