"Nothing. Just, I love seeing you like this. Happy."
The word love hangs in the air between us, and it's ridiculous, really—we've already said we've loved each other for eight years, but somehow saying"I love you"right now feels like crossing a different line.
We spend another hour wandering through the remaining galleries, our hands linked, shoulders brushing, and every touch feels charged with meaning. By the time we've seen everything, it's nearly five and my feet hurt, but my heart feels full in a way it hasn't in years.
"Thank you," I say as we walk back to his truck. "This was perfect."
"Yeah?" He opens the passenger door for me, but doesn't let me get in yet, crowding me against the truck instead. "I wanted to give you something good. Something that's just ours."
"You did." I look up at him, wishing more than anything that I could kiss him right here in this parking lot without worrying about who might see. "This was the best date I've ever been on."
"Better than that weird guy who took you to Applebee's?"
I laugh at the memory. "So much better than Applebee's."
"Good." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering. "You deserve better than that, Maya."
The drive home is quiet but comfortable, his hand finding mine across the center console like it belongs there.I'm already dreading going back to pretending, back to being careful, but for now, I let myself just exist in this moment.
Back at the house, Emma's making dinner while Ethan tears around the living room like he's had six espresso shots. She asks about the library, and I lie smoothly, talking about job postings I supposedly looked at while Jackson disappears to the basement. Chase is already sprawled on the couch watching something on his phone, and we all end up eating together, playing our roles perfectly.
Later, after Emma and Chase go to bed, I'm restless. I can't sleep, can't stop thinking about the museum, about Jackson's face when he looked at that painting, about the way he held my hand like he never wanted to let go.
I wander downstairs to grab water and pass the laundry room. The washer's running, Emma must've started a load before bed, but sitting on top of the dryer is a jersey. Black and silver. Number twenty-five. The C on the chest.
Jackson's captain jersey.
I pick it up, the fabric soft and worn from multiple washings. It smells like detergent and faintly like him, and without thinking, I pull it on over my tank top.
It's huge, falls to mid-thigh, sleeves past my hands. I look ridiculous.
I also feel something I can't quite name. Claimed, maybe. Like wearing his number means something.
This is crazy, I think, but I'm already stripping off my tank top and sleep shorts, standing here in just the jersey and nothing else.
Then I head to the basement.
His door's cracked, light still on. I knock once and push it open.
Jackson is on his bed, looking at his phone. He glances up, and his entire body goes still.
"Maya." My name comes out strangled. "What are you—is that my jersey?"
"Found it in the laundry room."
"You're wearing my jersey."
"Yeah."
"Just my jersey."
"Yeah."
He's off the bed in three strides, hands gripping my waist, backing me against the door. It closes with a soft click behind me.
"Do you have any idea what you look like right now?" His voice is rough, hands sliding up under the jersey to find bare skin. "Wearing my number with nothing underneath?"
"Tell me."
