“Morning,” he says, voice rough.
“Morning,” I whisper, and it comes out softer than I intend.
Jack’s hand reaches out and curls around my hip, pulling me closer like it’s instinct. Like he’s staking a claim he’s too disciplined to say out loud.
My breath catches.
He leans in and kisses me—slow, unhurried, warm enough to melt the last of my nerves.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “You okay?”
I blink. “You’re asking me if I’m okay after?—”
“After everything,” he corrects quietly.
My throat tightens.
I nod once. “I’m okay.”
Jack studies me like he’s checking for cracks. Then his thumb brushes my cheekbone—gentle, possessive in a way that makes my chest feel full and hot at the same time.
“Good,” he murmurs.
I should move. I should get up. I should remember I’m a functioning adult who has a classroom full of tiny humans to teach.
Instead, I whisper, “You’re very… boyfriend-ish this morning.”
Jack’s gaze sharpens. “I’m not your boyfriend.”
My heart drops for half a second.
Then he adds, voice low, “But I’m also not letting you out of my sight.”
Okay.
That helps. Maybe too much.
I smile, trying to keep it light even as my pulse races. “So… that’s a yes to being possessive, but a no to labels.”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “Get dressed, Stella.”
I gasp dramatically. “You’re evading.”
He kisses my forehead—soft, like it’s a promise he doesn’t want to admit. “Dress. School.”
“Ugh,” I groan, rolling onto my back. “I have to be responsible.”
Jack slides out of bed, and I immediately regret having eyeballs. He’s in sweats, barefoot, hair mussed, body all hard lines and sleepy heat. He looks like a fantasy built to ruin women who have common sense.
He catches me staring again and lifts a brow.
I throw the blanket over my head like that will save me from myself.
“Coffee,” he says, voice amused.
“Yes,” I answer from under the blanket. “Immediately. And maybe a therapist.”
On the drive to the school, I talk because silence makes my brain too loud.
