Jack is already dressed—dark jeans, dark shirt, boots, hair damp like he showered and came out sharper than ever. I’m in my teacher uniform—cute blouse, sensible pants, flats, hair wrangled into a ponytail that I pretend is intentional.
The drive into town is quiet.
Jack watches the road like it owes him money. He takes different turns than I would. He checks mirrors. He doesn’t let us sit at stop signs too long.
My hands twist in my lap.
“Breathe,” he murmurs without looking at me.
I inhale shakily. “I am breathing.”
“Not enough,” he says.
I glare at him. “You’re bossy.”
“Yes,” he agrees, like it’s a compliment.
We pull into the school parking lot before the first bell. The building looks normal—bright murals, little flags, the smell of cafeteria pancakes drifting through the early air.
And yet my stomach is in knots.
Jack parks in a spot with a clear view of the entrance.
“I can do this,” I whisper.
Jack’s gaze flicks to me. “I know.”
He gets out first, scans, then opens my door.
“Please don’t do that,” I mutter.
“Do what?”
“The… opening-my-door thing.”
Jack’s eyes narrow. “Why.”
“Because it makes me feel like…” I struggle for words. “…like I’m someone important.”
Jack’s voice drops. “You are.”
My chest tightens.
I climb out without arguing, and he follows me toward the building at a pace that matches mine perfectly—always close enough I can feel him, never so close it looks inappropriate.
The minute we step into the hallway, every adult within ten feet notices him.
Because it’s Jack.
Tall. Broad. Dangerous. The kind of man who makes principals straighten their posture out of sheer instinct.
Mrs. Hanover spots him and freezes mid-step.
Oh no.
“Stella?” she calls, eyes darting between me and Jack. “Who is that?”
I paste on my brightest smile. “This is Jack. He’s… a friend of Wyatt’s. He’s helping with safety.”
