Still, I check the locks.
Still, I check the windows.
Still, I run the perimeter, because fear is a liar and routine is the only thing I trust.
By the time I come back inside, Stella is awake—hair in a messy ponytail, wearing one of my t-shirts like it belongs on her, eyes still sleepy and soft. She’s holding a mug of coffee like it’s a lifeline.
My chest tightens.
I’ve protected people before.
I’ve never wanted one like this.
“Morning,” she says, voice warm.
“Morning,” I answer, and the word comes out rougher than it should.
Her gaze slides over my face. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The broody protector thing,” she says, and she tries for playful, but there’s a nervous edge under it. “You look like you want to fight the air.”
I walk closer and take her mug from her hands, set it on the counter, then slide my hands to her hips and pull her against me—just enough to feel her warmth, to remind my body she’s real.
She exhales, surprised. “Jack?—”
“I’m here,” I murmur, pressing my mouth to her forehead.
Her hands come up to my chest, fingers curling in my shirt. “I know.”
I breathe her in—shampoo and sleep and something sweet—and it hits me again, hard: I’m falling.
I don’t get that luxury.
Not now.
Not while someone is circling.
I force myself to step back. “Eat,” I tell her.
Stella blinks. “You’re back to bossing.”
“Yes.”
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I will eat. Like a responsible hostage.”
“You’re not a hostage,” I say, voice sharp.
She softens immediately. “I know. Sorry.”
I make breakfast. We move through the morning routine like we’ve been doing it for years—coffee, food, her packing her teacher bag, me checking my phone, texting Grayson for updates.
No new hits overnight.
No clear suspect.
But the thread is tightening.
