The clubhouse buzzed with noise and smoke. Mr. Mills flipped burgers at the grill, the scent of charred meat curling through the air. Mac was holding court by the cooler, handing out beers like he owned stock in Bud Light, while Hannah shouted instructions from the porch, her wooden spoon tapping against her palm like a gavel.
I wove through the chaos until Maria flagged me down at a picnic table. “Eyeliner, huh?” Jewel was perched on her lap, already smearing applesauce into her curls.
“Hush you.” I accepted the plate Maria handed me, ignoring her smirk.
“Eat,” she ordered.
I was a sucker for a good burger, and my girl had loaded my plate. I’d just taken a bite when the air shifted. The kind of shift you felt in your spine before your brain caught up.
He was dressed casually. Jeans, a faded T-shirt. His old, familiar leather jacket straining to fit his shoulders which had all but doubled in width. What exactly did they feed Marines? Crayons and steroids? He was going to need a bigger size.
I realized I was staring, and everything inside me short-circuited. My lungs forgot how to work. My burger staged a mutiny, lodging halfway down my throat. I coughed, choked, saw spots. And because the universe hates me, Dalton had picked that exact moment to saunter over with a drink in hand. He set it down, clapped me on the back with way too much enthusiasm, and grinned like Christmas had come early.
“Easy there, blondie. Try breathing between bites.”
I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. By the time I finally managed to wheeze in a full breath, my face was scarlet. Hannah, still perched like a queen on the porch, was smirking knowingly. Maria had both hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Jackson Morgan had been home all of thirty seconds, and the first thing he saw was me nearly dying on a burger. I chanced a glance at him and found him watching me with a half cocked smile. Lord, take me now.
The cookout slid into that easy rhythm the Mills clan always managed—kids darting between legs, somebody’s speaker crooning classic rock, Maria perched on a bench fixing Jewel’s hair while scolding Diego for sneaking her cookies. Dalton and Jackson had wrangled up a ramshackle football game, and I sat watching them play. Hannah eventually joined me, taking a seat at the table next to me. I caught her glancing from me to the fielda few times. I don’t think I wanted to know what that knowing gleam in her eyes meant.
The food was good, the chatter loud, and it was really just the perfect Friday after a very long week. God, I was ready for spring break. Every time Jackson tipped his head back to laugh, that low rasp rolling through the air, my chest did this stupid little twist. I found myself cataloguing things I shouldn’t—the scar along his knuckle, the way his T-shirt clung at the shoulders, the new stillness about him. Like he’d learned to hold himself tighter. Like something in him had shifted.
I hated that I noticed. I hated that it mattered.
By the time the sun slid down and the plates sat empty, I was strung tight. So, when Hannah clapped her hands and announced, “Alright, kitchen duty! Holly, Jackson—you two can handle dishes.”
My fork clattered against my plate.
“Wait,” I spluttered but Jackson had already starting clearing plates and heading inside, leaving me with not much of a choice other than to follow. Hannah’s eyes caught mine, bright with mischief, daring me to try and wriggle out. Which was how I ended up in the kitchen with Jackson Morgan at my side and no escape hatch in sight.
The sink steamed, bubbles frothing high, the whole kitchen hazy with grill smoke clinging to our clothes. I shoved my sleeves up and grabbed a plate like it was a weapon. He reached automatically for the towel, leaning one hip against the counter like he’d done it a thousand times. Like we weren’t two people tiptoeing around a fault line.
For a while, it was just the quiet splash of water and the clink of ceramic. Too quiet. I could hear my own heartbeat over it.
Then his voice—low, rougher than I remembered. “You look good, Malibu.”
The plate nearly slipped from my hands. My throat went tight, but this time I didn’t bother with the usual argument. He knew I hated the nickname. He also knew I wasn’t going to stop him.
“Flattery, Marine?” I tried for sharp, but it came out thin, frayed at the edges.
His mouth twitched like he wanted to grin but thought better of it. “Not flattery. Just fact.”
I focused hard on the soap bubbles, scrubbing like the plate had personally offended me. “You’ve been back five minutes and you’re already insufferable.”
That broke him—the grin came, softer than I’d seen in a long time. “Maybe. But it’s good, seeing you. Better than I thought it’d be.”
Something pulled in my chest, stupid and dangerous. I scrubbed harder, like I could drown it in suds. “You could’ve told me you were coming.”
“Wanted to surprise you.” His voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. “Didn’t count on Dalton being a traitor.”
That pulled a laugh out of me, sharp and unwilling. Our shoulders brushed when I handed him another plate. Neither of us moved away. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Your texts…they help.” My throat felt too tight, the admission small and raw.
His gray eyes caught mine, steady, unflinching. “Keeps me sane.”
The air shifted. The room shrank until it was just soap bubbles and the heat rolling off him and my own pulse hammering in my ears. His fingers brushed mine. Not accidental. Not hurried. A test.
I didn’t flinch.
