Chapter 6 Jack
SIX
JACK
The fireworks end, but my job doesn’t.
The crowd is still buzzing—people laughing, drifting toward their trucks, kids half-asleep on shoulders, couples lingering like they’ve got nowhere else to be but under string lights and a Texas sky. The band packs up slowly. The last notes hang in the air like smoke.
Stella stays beside me, warm at my side, her hand still in mine like it belongs there.
It shouldn’t.
And yet.
She’s looking up at the sky like she can still see the afterimage of gold bursts, cheeks flushed, eyes bright—until she turns her face toward me and that smile softens into something that knocks the air out of my lungs.
“Home,” I’d told her.
Now I have to make it real.
I scan the crowd again, reflex and instinct doing their thing.
The men I’m watching don’t know I’m watching them.
That’s the point. I clock faces, movements, pockets, hands.
I mark the blue F-150 Wyatt mentioned. I mark the guy who keeps glancing toward Stella even after she’s stopped moving.
I mark the man near the gate who shifts when he sees me looking.
Then I feel Stella’s fingers squeeze mine.
I look down.
“You’re doing the thing,” she says, voice low.
“The thing?”
“The scary hawk thing,” she whispers. “Where you look like you’re about to tackle a stranger.”
I should smile. I should keep it light.
“I’m doing my job,” I tell her, voice rough.
Her gaze searches mine. “And your job is… taking me home.”
“For a bag,” I correct.
Her lips part, and I see it land. The reality. The weight.
“Okay,” she says softly.
We find Wyatt near the fence line talking to a deputy, his posture that particular brand of stiff that says he’s two seconds from punching someone and calling it community service.
He spots us immediately.
“Jack,” he says.
“Deputy,” I answer.
Wyatt’s gaze flicks to Stella. “You alright?”
Stella lifts her chin like she’s still in control of her own life. “Yes. I danced. I watched fireworks. I did not get crushed by hay. It was a successful night.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitches. “Proud of you.”
“I can tell,” she says.
Then Wyatt looks at me, and the humor drops out of his face. “What’s the plan?”
I keep my voice low. “We swing by her place. Grab essentials. Then we relocate.”
Stella goes still beside me.
Wyatt nods once, like he expected this. Like he’s been fighting the urge to do it himself. “Good.”
Stella’s eyes widen. “You two— you already agreed on this?”
Wyatt lifts a brow. “Stella.”
“I’m right here,” she hisses.
Wyatt ignores her and talks to me. “Text me when you’re set. Sheriff wants an update.”
“You’ll get it,” I promise.
Wyatt’s gaze sharpens. “And Jack?”
I meet his eyes. “Yeah.”
“If she gives you hell—”
“I will,” Stella cuts in, scandalized. “Excuse me, I do not give hell. I give feedback.”
Wyatt doesn’t even look at her. “—don’t take it personal. She’s scared.”
Stella’s breath catches. For a second, the bravado slips and she looks…small.
It hits me in the ribs.
Wyatt steps forward and hugs her tight. “Love you, Firecracker.”
“I love you too,” she whispers, voice muffled against his chest.
He releases her, then points at me like he’s aiming a weapon. “Bring her back.”
I nod once. “I will.”
Wyatt holds my gaze a beat longer, then steps back. “Goodnight.”
Stella forces a smile. “Night.”
We turn, and I guide her through the thinning crowd, my hand settling at the small of her back. Not because she needs help walking—because I need her in range. Because I can’t stand the idea of losing sight of her in the dark.
She glances up at me as we reach my truck. “You’re… very touchy for a guy pretending to be professional.”
I open the passenger door for her. “Get in.”
She laughs under her breath, but she climbs in, and I catch the way her body relaxes just slightly when she’s inside the cab.
I shut the door and circle around, scanning the lot before I climb in.
As soon as I’m behind the wheel, I lock the doors.
Stella’s gaze flicks to the locks. “That’s dramatic.”
“It’s smart,” I say.
She exhales. “Okay. I’m… not arguing.”
Silence fills the truck, thick and heavy.
Then, quietly: “I hate this.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “I know.”
“I hate feeling like I’m… prey,” she whispers.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
“Look at me,” I say.
She turns, and I catch her profile in the dash lights. Her eyes shine—not quite tears, but close.
“You’re not prey,” I tell her, voice low. “You’re protected.”
“By you,” she says.
“Yes.”
The word comes out harder than I intend. Like a claim.
She holds my gaze for a beat, then looks out the window at the dark road and the sleeping fields. “Okay,” she whispers again, softer than before.
I drive faster than I should.
Not reckless.
Just… urgent.
Her house looks normal in the night.
That’s what pisses me off.
White siding. Porch swing. A little wreath still hanging because Stella seems like the type who believes seasonal decor should be celebrated aggressively. Her porch light is off.
I park at the curb but don’t get out right away.
I scan the street. The yards. The shadows.
Stella’s voice is small. “Jack…?”
“Stay in the truck,” I tell her.
“I can—”
“Stella.” I cut it off before it becomes a debate.
Her lips press together, but she nods. “Fine.”
“Lock up when I leave.”
She gives me a quick nod.
I get out, shut my door quietly, and approach the house like I’m back on mission—feet light, senses wide, breath controlled. I check the side yard. The gate. The back corner. I listen.
Nothing.
That doesn’t mean anything.
I reach the porch. Test the door.
Unlocked.
My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.
I step inside, moving through her living room, checking corners, checking windows, checking the back door. The house smells like vanilla and laundry detergent and her—soft, sweet, normal. It makes me want to burn the whole world down for touching it.
There’s a zip tie on the counter.
Neat. Deliberate.
I stare at it for a beat too long.
Then I turn and go back to the porch. Stella is still in the truck, arms folded, trying to look tough.
I motion with two fingers. “Come.”
She climbs out quickly and hurries to me. The second she reaches the porch, I put my hand at her lower back and guide her inside without thinking.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away.
She follows my lead down the hall, eyes darting. I can feel her trying to stay calm.
She’s brave as hell.
That makes me even angrier.
“We’re moving fast,” I tell her. “Bag for two, three days. Essentials. Charger. Meds if you have them. Shoes you can run in.”
“I can run in heels,” she says automatically.
I look at her.
She pauses. “Okay, I can run in panic.”
“That’ll do,” I mutter.
She darts into her bedroom. I hang in the doorway, scanning the room while she shoves things into a duffel with frantic efficiency.
She freezes for half a second, clutching a handful of shirts. “Jack.”
“What?”
Her gaze meets mine, and for a beat the fear fades and there’s something else there—something hot and curious and dangerous.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispers.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re… deciding something.”
I swallow.
I don’t answer.
Because I am deciding something.
I’m deciding that nobody gets near her again. Not without going through me.
She zips the duffel. “Okay. I’m done.”
I take it from her immediately.
She starts to protest. I cut her off with one look. Her mouth closes.
We move back through the house, and as we pass the kitchen counter, she spots the zip tie.
Her face drains.
“What is that?” she whispers.
“A message,” I say.
Her voice shakes. “How did they get in?”
I shrug. “The door was unlocked.”
“I always lock up.” Her eyes dart around. I can see the fear hidden deep beneath her irises.
I grab her shoulders, bending my knees slightly to stare directly into her eyes. “This is a message that they can get in.”
She swallows hard. “Okay. Safe house.”
I nod. “Safe house.”
No more jokes.
No more pretending.
She follows me out, and I guide her into the truck, then lock the doors again.
Click.
This time she doesn’t comment.
The safe house is a cabin twenty minutes out, tucked behind a line of trees off a gravel road. No lights from the highway. No neighbors. No landmarks that scream here’s where we hide people.
I’ve used it before.
Never with a woman who makes my blood run hot.
I park, get out first, scan the perimeter, then open Stella’s door.
She steps out slowly, looking around.
“Cute,” she says faintly.
“Inside,” I tell her.
She follows me to the porch, and I unlock the door, sweep the cabin, check the rooms, check windows, check the back door.
Clear.
I flip on a lamp. Warm light fills the space—simple couch, small kitchen, table, one hallway.
Stella sets her bag down and wraps her arms around herself like she’s trying to hold her own ribs together.
I hate seeing her like this.
I step close, lowering my voice. “You’re safe here.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be,” I say.
She nods, but her chin trembles just slightly.
I reach out before I can stop myself and touch her shoulder—light, steady.
She leans into it like she needed it.
That small surrender punches me in the chest.
“I’m going to text Wyatt,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I send the update. Arrived. Secure. Door was unlocked. Zip tie left on counter. She’s safe.
Wyatt responds instantly. Thank you. Don’t let her minimize it.
I pocket my phone and look at Stella.
She’s watching me like she’s waiting for another shoe to drop.
“Bedroom’s down the hall,” I say. “You take it. I’ll take the couch.”
Stella frowns immediately. “No.”
“No?” I repeat.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” she says, like she’s offended on behalf of furniture comfort everywhere.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” She steps closer, hands on her hips in full teacher mode. “You’re the one protecting me. You need proper sleep.”
Little does she know that if I sleep in bed with her I won’t be getting any sleep at all. “I can sleep on a couch.”
“You can,” she agrees. “But you shouldn’t.”
I stare at her. “Stella.”
She points at me. “Jack.”
The way she says my name—sharp, insistent—does something low and hot in my gut.
I force my voice steady. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“It is if I say it is,” she counters. “Also, have you seen your shoulders? You will snap that couch in half.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead I walk down the hall and open the bedroom door.
One bed.
Of course.
Stella appears beside me and stops short. “Oh.”
I glance at her. “You sleep. I take the couch.”
She turns to me, eyes wide and stubborn. “No.”
I exhale slow. “Stella, we are not sharing a bed.”
She lifts her chin. “Why not?”
Because if I share a bed with you, I’ll spend the entire night fighting my own hands. Because you smell like sugar and warmth and I want to put my mouth on you until you forget your own name. Because I don’t trust myself.
I keep my face blank. “Because it’s not appropriate.”
She studies me, and I can see her trying to decide if she should push or retreat. Then she surprises me. Her voice softens. “Jack… I don’t want you out there alone. Not when someone’s been in my house. Not when you’re doing all of this because of me.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
She blinks slowly. “Stop downplaying it.”
I go still.
She gives me the smallest, most smug smile. “See? I’m learning.”
I should be annoyed. Instead, something warm twists in my chest. “You think I’m uncomfortable,” I say, “and you want to fix it.”
“I do,” she whispers. “That’s what I do.”
My gaze drops to her mouth. “And you don’t think sharing a bed with me will make things… complicated.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “I think it already is.”
The air between us thickens.
I step closer without meaning to. “Stella…”
Her voice is small. “I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
My throat tightens.
She keeps going, softer now. “But I can’t sleep if you’re out there on the couch like some kind of… tragic, noble statue.”
A laugh rips out of me, low and surprised.
Stella’s eyes brighten like she just won something. “You laughed,” she whispers triumphantly.
“It was an accident,” I mutter.
“Sure it was,” she echoes, copying my earlier tone.
I shake my head once, trying to regain control. “We share the bed, you stay on your side.”
Stella’s brows lift. “Oh, so now there are rules.”
“Yes.”
“What are they?”
I hold her gaze. “No wandering hands.”
Her lips part. “Was I planning to wander?”
“I don’t know what you’re planning,” I say, voice low. “But I know what I’m capable of.”
Her breath catches, and she swallows. “Okay,” she whispers. “No wandering hands.”
I grab a spare blanket from the closet and toss it on the bed like a barrier I don’t trust. “If you get uncomfortable, you tell me.”
“If you get uncomfortable,” she says softly, “you tell me.”
I meet her eyes. “I’m already uncomfortable.”
Her cheeks deepen in color. “Oh.”
I step back before I do something I can’t take back. “Go change. Bathroom’s across the hall.”
She nods, then pauses in the doorway. “Jack?”
“What.”
She looks at me with that mix of fear and bravery that makes my chest ache. “Thank you.”
My voice goes quiet. “Always.”
She disappears into the bathroom.
I stand alone in the bedroom, staring at the single bed like it’s a trap.
Because it is.
When she comes back in a few minutes, she’s in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, hair down, bare legs, looking like she belongs in a warm, safe life I don’t deserve.
Her eyes flick to mine, then away.
She climbs into bed on the far side, tugging the quilt up, trying to look casual.
She fails.
I turn off the lamp, leaving only the faint light from the living room spilling under the door. I slide into bed on my side, careful not to touch her.
The mattress dips.
The air shifts.
Stella exhales, shaky. “Jack?” she whispers into the dark.
“Yeah.”
“I’m… really here.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you’re… really here.”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “I feel safe.”
The words hit me harder than any bullet ever has.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, every muscle taut, every instinct awake—not just for danger outside, but for the warmth beside me, the quiet trust in her voice. “I’ve got you,” I murmur.
Stella shifts slightly, the smallest movement, but it’s enough that her knee brushes mine under the covers.
A spark shoots straight through my bloodstream.
I clench my jaw, keeping my hands to myself.
Stella doesn’t move away. She whispers, almost too quiet to hear, “Goodnight, Jack.”
My voice is rough. “Goodnight, Stella.”
And I stay awake long after her breathing evens out—watching the door, listening to the night, fighting my own body like it’s the most dangerous thing in the room.
Because the truth is simple:
If someone tries to take her from me— they’ll have to kill me first.