10. Jack
JACK
I’ve always been an early riser.
Not because I like sunrises. I don’t. They’re quiet and slow and oddly sentimental, and I’ve never had much use for any of those things. But waking up early means I control the day before it has a chance to control me. And that’s something I do believe in.
The sky is just starting to shift when I head downstairs—bare feet on warm wood, hair still damp from the quick shower. I expect silence. Maybe the hum of the fridge. A creaking floorboard. That’s usually all I get this time of day.
But the lights are on. Soft. Cozy. And I smell coffee.
I round the corner into the kitchen and stop short. Parker is sitting on one of the stools at the island, her knees drawn up beneath her in leggings, hoodie slouched off one shoulder, a mug between her hands. Her hair’s a little messy. She looks half asleep and completely perfect.
“Morning,” she says.
I blink. “You’re up.”
She shrugs, sips. “Mom life. Six years of being woken up by tiny humans at dawn. My body doesn’t remember how to sleep in anymore.”
I pour a mug for myself and join her at the counter. “I didn’t even hear you come down.”
“I’ve been up for a while.” She doesn’t offer anything else, and I don’t ask.
We sip our coffee in companionable silence, the kind that hums with too many words left unsaid. I glance at her bare feet, the way her toes curl around the rung of the stool, and try not to stare at her legs, folded like that. Try not to remember how they wrapped around my waist last night.
Fail.
She catches me. I clear my throat and look away. She asks, “You always up this early?”
“Yeah. Habit.”
“You ever do anything with it? Or just brood into your mug and judge the sunrise?”
I glance at her. “Both.”
She grins.
I take a long sip and say, “There’s a trail behind the cabin. Leads down to the lake. You feel like getting out of here for a bit?”
She hesitates.
I can see her thinking. Weighing. We’re past pretending we’re just coworkers. But she’s still not sure what we are instead. That’s okay. I don’t know either.
Eventually, she nods. “Let me grab shoes.” Five minutes later, we’re out the back door.
The morning air is crisp, laced with pine and woodsmoke and the earthy dampness of dew. The trail is narrow, winding through tall trees and brush that rustles when the wind shifts. It’s quiet, but not silent—birds waking up, leaves sighing.
She walks beside me, hoodie sleeves pushed up. She’s quiet for a while. Then, she mutters, “This place is beautiful.”
“It’s a good reset.”
“I can see that.”
I glance at her. “You seem better this morning.”
She huffs a laugh. “Define better.”
“You’re not bolting.”
She winces. “I’ve thought about it.”
“I figured.”
She glances sideways at me. “You mad?”
“No.”
She chews her bottom lip for a second, then sighs. “I didn’t mean to make things messy.”
“You didn’t. I knew what I was doing.”
“I’m still not sure I did.”
The lake is stunning. Glassy surface. Mist curling along the water like breath. The dock stretches out in front of us, silvered with moisture and quiet as the trees that frame the far shore.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “You want to talk about it?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Then she steps out onto the dock, slow, thoughtful.
I follow.
When we reach the end, she turns to face me. Her eyes are darker in this light. More serious. “Seven years ago,” she says. “You know I regretted that night.”
I nod once, fighting not to grit my teeth. Old hurts die harder when new ones bring back the memories. It’s like scar tissue getting sliced into. “I remember.”
“But not because of you.”
I stay still. Listening.
“I regretted what it meant. What it could’ve meant if Phil ever found out. I had just graduated high school. I didn’t think you took me seriously.”
My heart sinks as my mouth goes dry. “Parker, I did. I took every moment with you seriously.” Still do.
“I know that now,” she says, quietly. “But back then I thought I was just…stupid. A kid.”
“You weren’t stupid.”
She gives me a sad little smile. “I was scared. I still am.”
“I get that.”
“You really don’t,” she says. “You’re one of them —you and Gavin and Harrison. You’ve built something together. You’re respected. Powerful. You don’t have to worry about losing everything with one mistake.”
I step closer. “You think I don’t?”
Her jaw tenses.
“Parker. That night seven years ago? I’ve thought about it a hundred times. Maybe more. I’ve never regretted a second of it. Not the kiss, not the bar’s bathroom stall, not the bed, not the way you looked at me when you said my name.”
Her lips part.
“What I regret is that you left without saying a real goodbye. That you looked at me like I was the mistake. That every time we’ve touched since your first day at VT, you’ve looked away like this doesn’t matter.”
She breathes out slowly. “It does matter.”
“I know.”
“I just didn’t think this through. I have kids. I have Phil to worry about. I have a job I can’t afford to lose.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say. “Because whatever happens with us, you’ll be taken care of. No matter what.”
She looks up at me, guarded. “That sounds like a promise you can’t keep.”
I shake my head. “It’s one I will .”
She hesitates. I hate that. I can see her wanting to believe me. So I reach for her face. Cup her cheek. Thumb brushing over her skin.
“Let me show you,” I say.
Then I kiss her.
She’s stiff at first. Guarded. But then—slowly, gently—she melts into me.
Her arms wind around my neck. Her mouth softens.
And when I pull her closer, she lets me.
I hold her like I’m trying to memorize the shape of her, the weight, the sound of her breath.
Like I can keep this moment for when she pulls away again.
But she doesn’t. Not yet. We break apart a minute later. Her forehead presses to mine. We’re both breathing a little harder.
Then she lets out a breath and says, “I miss swimming.”
I blink. “What?”
She pulls back, a sweet smile on her perfect lips. “It’s stupid. I just…I didn’t know there’d be a lake. I would’ve brought a suit.”
“You don’t need one.”
She arches a brow. I smirk. Step back. Grab the hem of my shirt and pull it off in one motion. Her eyes widen. Then I unbutton my jeans and drop them too.
“What are you?—”
Before she can finish, I dive off the end of the dock.
The water is cold as hell. I break the surface with a gasp and turn to face her, treading water. The sun’s just starting to rise, casting gold across the water. She’s standing there, dumbfounded.
“You coming in?” I call.
She laughs. “You’re insane. ”
“Maybe. But I feel amazing.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re naked.”
“Yup.”
She bites her lip.
“Parker.”
She looks at me.
“Come swim with me.” Come play with me .
She hesitates. Then reaches for the hem of her hoodie.
I grin.
She pulls her hoodie over her head slowly, the morning air catching on the bare skin of her stomach as her shirt lifts with it. Her tank top goes next, tossed onto the dock in a quiet flutter. She hesitates at the waistband of her leggings.
I tread water and wait, doing my best not to push.
Not to rush. This is her choice. Every part of this—her decision.
She steps out of her leggings and underwear in one smooth motion, arms folded tight across her chest as she tiptoes to the edge of the dock.
Her breath curls in the air. Goose bumps rise on her skin.
“Are you sure this isn’t hypothermia waiting to happen?” she calls.
“Only if you wait any longer to get in,” I say, grinning.
She huffs. “This is so dumb.”
“It’s perfect.”
She rolls her eyes—then jumps. The splash is sharp, satisfying. She comes up gasping, hair plastered to her head, blinking hard. “Oh my god—it’s cold. ”
“Welcome to the mountains,” I say, swimming closer. “You’ll adjust.”
“I better.”
We tread water together, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth bleeding off each other. The silence here is thicker than in the city. No traffic. No sirens. Just birdsong, the occasional breeze through pine, and the soft ripple of water around us.
She tips her head back and closes her eyes. “I forgot what it felt like.”
“What?”
“Stillness.”
I nod. “That’s why we come here.”
She glances at me, her gaze softer now. Less guarded. “You come out here a lot?”
“Used to. Not so much lately.”
“Why?”
“Busy. Always something to fix. Some fire to put out.”
She floats on her back for a moment, arms stretched. “This place is…grounding.”
I watch her. The curve of her neck. The slope of her collarbone. The way the sunrise paints her in warm light.
“You’re beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.
She stills. Then sinks back upright, water sliding down her cheeks. Her expression changes. Something quiet breaks open behind her eyes. She swims toward me. No hesitation this time.
She reaches for my shoulders and pulls herself into me, wrapping her legs around my waist. I catch her, hands firm on her hips, and her mouth finds mine. It’s different this time.
Not hungry, not frantic. Slow. Searching. Like she’s finally letting herself want it. Want me.
Her fingers thread into my hair. Her breath is warm against my mouth. And I hold her like I’m afraid she’ll disappear. We kiss until the cold doesn’t matter. Until the water’s an afterthought.
I swim us back to the dock, lifting her as I go. She laughs into my neck. I haul her up, dripping and shivering. She’s right in front of me, legs dangling over the edge of the dock.
“I have no towel,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself as she shivers.
“I’ll warm you up.”
Her smile wobbles. “Jack?—”
I part her thighs, looking up once, checking. She nods. So, I make a meal of her.
She’s already wet—more from want than the lake—and she arches under me, fingers gripping my hair. She tastes like something I want to memorize. Something I memorized seven years ago.
Her moans are soft, breathy, whispered against the morning light. I add my fingers to the mix, and she clenches her thighs around me, the threat of suffocation becoming real. If this is how I die, then this is how I die.
I raise her thighs over my shoulders, diving deeper into her. Her clit is firm beneath my lips, and her core is practically humming on my fingertips. She comes with a gasp, thighs trembling around my shoulders.
I crawl up to kiss her again, and we take our time. Tongues, teeth, lips, shared breaths. I’m wrapped up in her, and she’s wrapped up in me. Nothing exists outside this moment.
That’s when I know it. I’m gone for her. And there’s no coming back.
Later, we sit on the dock with our legs in the water, wrapped in a shared blanket I ran and stole from the couch. The sun is higher now, the light brighter. The chill’s faded, replaced by warmth that settles in my bones.
Parker leans her head on my shoulder.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods slowly. “Better than okay.”
“You still scared?”
“A little.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
I glance down at her. “Then what?”
“Of how good this feels.”
I kiss her temple. “Let it feel good.”
She closes her eyes. I don’t push her for anything else. But in my chest, I know—I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. To keep her mine.
Whatever this turns into…I’m all in.