I worked with methodical precision, each item going into its proper place, each compartment secured.
Not because it mattered—most of this would get unpacked and repacked once Sterling briefed me on what we were actually doing—but because standing still was not something I could afford right now.
The farmhouse was quiet around me—just the soft tick of the heating system and the sound of Jackson moving through the kitchen below.
By three, the bag was packed and sitting by the back door next to my boots, ready for a pre-dawn departure. I stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, watching Jackson at the sink with his back to me, and tried to make sense of what was happening.
Somewhere in the world, a child was coming. I would be there to see it. Would make it back from wherever Sterling wassending me, would walk through that door and take up the side of the bed that had somehow become mine, would be present for whatever happened next.
The promise sat between my shoulder blades like something with an edge—not quite physical, but present enough that I had to look down at the floor to hide whatever had just happened to my face.
Jackson turned from the sink with careful attention, drying his hands on the towel that hung beside it. He didn’t ask if I was ready or how long I’d be gone or whether I’d thought about what would happen to the farmhouse if Peterson’s network decided to try again.
Just looked at me across the kitchen with that particular calm he used when he had already processed something, and said, “Dinner’s at six.”
By evening, my jump bag was packed and sitting by the back door next to my boots, ready for a pre-dawn departure. The farmhouse had gone quiet in the specific way it did after a decision had been made and before it had been lived—no ranch hands, no voices from the bunkhouse, just the low creak of the structure settling and the distant sound of wind off the valley.
I found Jackson already in bed, lying on his side in the amber light of the low lamp on the nightstand, the blanket pulled to his hip, one hand resting against the curve of his stomach the way it always did now.
His hair was damp at the temples—recent shower, then—and his shoulders were relaxed in a way they rarely were when he thought someone might be watching.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him without speaking. He’d slept in this bed every night, had woken up beside me every morning, had gradually shifted from the careful distance of week one to the proximity that meant he now had a side.
I moved into the room with careful steps, making sure nothing in my posture suggested the weight I was carrying in my head. Jackson’s eyes tracked me across the floor—not the calculation that meant he was processing threats, but something adjacent to both that made my chest tight for a second.
I sat on the edge of the mattress and asked, carefully, “Is it all right to touch you? Will it be safe for the baby?”
Jackson answered by reaching for me. His hand was warm against my jaw, his eyes giving away nothing. I came down over him slowly, one hand bracing beside his head, the other moving to his jaw and tipping his face up.
I kissed him once, soft—not how I usually started things, but tonight had a different weight and my body knew it.
Jackson’s hand came up to the back of my neck and pulled me down harder, and I let myself be pulled, let the softness go, kissed him deep and thorough until Jackson’s breath went ragged against my mouth.
His other hand moved to my chest, palm flat against my sternum, feeling the way my heart was hammering under my ribs.
I worked my way down Jackson’s throat and collarbone, dragging my teeth across his nipples until he arched up with a sharp inhale and his fingers tightened in my hair.
I took my time there, reading every sound, cataloguing all of it, because I was leaving in the morning and these pieces of information—the exact pressure that made Jackson swear, the specific rhythm that made his thighs tense—were the kind of intel that kept men alive through situations where the margin for error was measured in seconds, not minutes.
Jackson’s sleep pants came off with a single decisive motion—his hand reaching for the waistband, pushing them down his thighs, kicking them off.
I ran my hands over him slowly—the curve of his belly, the heat of his skin, the way his cock was already hard and flushed against his stomach.
I wrapped a hand around it, stroking him in long unhurried pulls while Jackson’s jaw dropped and his hips rolled up into the friction. His eyes closed, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder—not pushing, not pulling, just the physical fact of us connected in a way that made everything else irrelevant.
“Jesus, Cruz,” he said, his voice gone low and rough. “Stop making me wait.”
I didn’t stop. Worked my mouth down his stomach instead, careful and deliberate around the swell of the pregnancy, and got my lips around the head of his cock until Jackson’s thighs were shaking and his knuckles were white in the sheets. His breath came in sharp pants, his hips rolling up in the way that meant he was close.
I pulled off before he could finish, ignored the curse that followed, and reached for the lube on the nightstand. Jackson watched me with careful attention, his eyes tracking each movement.
I worked a slick finger into his ass slowly, watching his face, giving him time to adjust. Jackson’s head tipped back against the pillow with a low sound that did something permanent to my chest. His hand came to rest on my forearm—not pushing, not pulling, just the physical fact of us connected in a way that made everything else irrelevant.
I added a second finger, scissoring him open carefully—I was thick and had never once been careless with Jackson’s body even when everything else between us was rough and urgent—and Jackson pushed back against my hand, his jaw tight and his breath coming in controlled measures.
“I’m ready,” he said, his voice gone low and unsteady. “Come on.”
I added a third finger anyway, stretching him fully, watching the flush spread up his throat. His hand tightened on my arm—not enough to leave marks, but enough that I could feel the pressure of his fingers against my skin.
