Everyone waited. I hesitated, part of me still fearing things that weren’t him. But this wasn’t…that. There was no need to run from this. Right?
Only one way to find out. So I swallowed. Lifted my chin. And put my hand in his. Jackson led me just outside the firelight—close enough for warmth, far enough for privacy. One hand settled at my waist, slow and cautious, like he was touching something fragile. I rested my hand on his shoulder because anything else would’ve set my nerves on fire. We swayed. Just that. Just swaying.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“I’m cold.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I am.”
He didn’t push. He didn’t ask. He just held me steady.
The fire popped behind us. The guitar thrummed quietly. And for somewhere between one breath and the next—I forgot to be afraid.
Jackson dipped his head slightly, voice rough. “Holly?”
“Yeah?”
His forehead touched mine.
“Leaving for basic doesn’t mean leaving you. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure if I believed that. But maybe I was starting to. Under the firelight, with his heartbeat tapping against my palm, something in me finally, quietly clicked into place.
Chapter Thirteen
? Jackson ?
I woke up Sunday morning with Diego’s elbow jammed into my spine. Technically, we had a bed. A queen. Large enough for two grown men. Technically. In reality, Diego slept like he was reenacting a homicide, and I ended up half off the mattress, clinging to the edge like the hero in an action movie refusing to fall from the skyscraper. I shoved him. He groaned, rolled, and took the blanket with him. Figures. We’d crashed in the spare room—one of the few spaces August and Hannah never fully finished decorating. Bed, dresser, nightstand. Functional. No nonsense. It smelled like cedar and laundry detergent. Mac had his room. Dalton had the room across the hall. And the girls got August and Hannah’s room because it was the only one with a bathroom attached—plus, Hannah would’ve murdered us if we’d stuck a pregnant girl anywhere else.
I stretched, bones popping, and made my way to the kitchen. The cabin was quiet. Warm. Early sun slanted through the windows and painted the whole place gold. The coffee pot was full. Mac had set it on a timer before we all went to bed. I grabbed a mug and filled it to the brim. Black. Hot enough to maim. Exactly how I needed it. I’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep. Every time I drifted off, I jolted awake thinking about Holly’s waist in my hand. The way she smelled like coconut sunscreen and lake water. The way she’d looked at me like I wasn’t just some jock from a busted trailer. Like maybe I wassomething more. Footsteps padded behind me, and I didn’t even have to turn around.
“Morning,” Holly mumbled, voice soft and scratchy with sleep.
I turned. And almost aspirated my own soul. Matching silk pajamas. Shorts that were basically a suggestion. Tank top that clung like she’d been poured into it. Blonde hair in a messy knot. Eyes heavy from sleep. She looked…soft. Feminine. Disarmed. A version of Holly I’d never seen before. The kind of girl I’d burn in hell for. Without thinking, I handed her the steaming mug. She took it like she trusted me not to poison her.
She sniffed the coffee, recoiled, and marched to the fridge. “Absolutely not. I am not raw-dogging caffeine like a psychopath.” She grabbed the creamer. Not just “a splash.” Half the mug. Maybe more.
“You want some coffee with your sugar?” I asked.
She sipped it with a blissful sigh. “Yes. It’s perfect.”
I stared at her. “That’s not coffee.”
“It has coffeeinit.”
“Barely.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s good.”
I wanted to roll my eyes so hard they detached. Instead, I found myself watching her. The way she curled her fingers around the mug. The way her bare legs brushed against each other as she shifted her weight. The way the morning light traced her shoulders, her collarbone. I didn’t know where to put my hands. Or my sanity.
“So,” she said, staring into her mug like it held state secrets, “about last night.” She finally raised her eyes, expression unreadable. “What was it?”
God, I hated not having the answers sometimes. I could tell she needed them. Clarity meant safety to her. So, I kept my voicelow. Gentle. Controlled. Gave her the only answer I had. “It was real.”
Her breath hitched.
