34. Ozzy
Ozzy
“ B rumby.”
“Brumby.”
“Brumby—”
“Ozzy!”
I bolt upright on the couch, my breath ragged, heart in my throat. Theo kneels in front of me, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Jesus, Oz… you were crying in your sleep. You kept calling for help. Are you okay? Do you want me to call Jack?—”
“No,” I rasp, a little sharper than I meant to. I force myself upright despite the roaring in my head and the tight, aching pull in my chest. “I can’t. Not right now.”
Theo just nods, but the worry doesn’t leave her face. She stands as I stagger toward the kitchen, like movement will drown out the memories clawing at the back of my skull.
Yesterday was…fuck.
It started normal. The storm was rolling in, and the Kentons were late for their appointment. Denise asked if I’d stay late to help. I told her I’d call Jackson afterward to come get me, just in case the roads got too bad.
James Kenton is every inch the local drunk, the town embarrassment; the man everyone whispers about but no one confronts. And I saw it in Leah’s eyes before he even opened his mouth— fear . That same kind of desperate, quiet terror I used to wear like skin.
When I told him to wait in the lobby, he exploded.
Screaming. Accusing his wife of cheating on him and that the baby she’s about to deliver isn’t his.
Denise called the cops immediately, but it didn’t stop him.
He grabbed Leah by the arm so hard I heard her gasp, and everything inside me snapped.
I remember lunging. Pushing her behind me.
I remember the sharp rip as his hand yanked my necklace clean off.
I slapped him.
Hard.
And then he leaned in close, so close I could smell the cheap beer and bile, and he spat the words that stuck like splinters in my chest:
“You dumb fucking whore. You better watch your back. I’m gonna make you pay for that.”
I don’t remember what happened after that. I just remember Jackson—my sweet, protective Superman—tackling him down the stairs like a goddamn freight train. And even with him there, I couldn’t stop shaking.
It’s not the man. It’s not the threat. It’s the body. The posture. The raised voice. The echo of something old and buried cracking through the present like ice beneath your feet.
It’s the fact that no matter how safe I am now, my body doesn’t know it yet.
That’s the thing with C-PTSD. There’s no logic to it.
No switch you can flip. Some days, you’re fine.
Some days, a slammed door or a raised voice rips your skin off from the inside out.
And all I can do is ride it out, try not to drown, and—inthis current instance—pray Jackson doesn’t look at me like I’m too broken.
“Knock, knock!” Niamh’s voice floats in as she kicks open the front door like some manic fairy godmother, with a box of pastries under one arm and a paper bag in the other. “I’ve come bearin’ tea an’ treats, so make room and don’t be givin’ me lip!”
I blink at her as she sets the box down and pulls out a small teapot. A literal teapot.
“What are you even doing with that?” I ask, half-laughing. “I’ve got, like, two stale Lipton bags in the cabinet. You can nuke water if you want.”
Niamh spins on her heel, horrified. “Sweet divine, no! Don’t you dare say such a thing in my presence again. Nukin’ water? Jesus, next you’ll be tellin’ me you reuse your knickers. Sit your traumatized arse down. I’ll make you a proper cuppa, like a decent human bein.’”
Theo groans from the couch. “She’s Irish. Just let her have this.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re all curled up with hot mugs and a plate of cookies. They taste like magic.
“This is… actually incredible,” I mumble, sipping.
“See? Civilized drinkin’. Not that bog water you lot pass off as coffee.”
I smile genuinely for the first time since yesterday.
Then Niamh raises an eyebrow. “Right. So. Heard you’re doin’ your best to ghost your cowboy.”
I narrow my eyes and turn to Theo. “Big mouth.”
Theo throws her hands up. “I didn’t say shit . My lips are sealed tighter than?—”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll box your ears,” Niamh warns.
I roll my eyes, but the banter’s soothing. It cuts through the noise. For a moment, I let myself breathe.
Then Niamh tilts her head. “No, but serious now—he’s still out there, ye know.”
I frown. “What? He’s not?—”
I glance out the window and my heart clenches. Jackson. Outside. Shoveling my walkway. In the goddamn snowstorm .
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter. My throat tightens when I spot Gretchen beside him. He went out in this mess and got my car.
I head to the kitchen, grab the insulated mug Theo left earlier, and pour in the rest of the tea. My hands are shaking again—so stupid, so small—but I push past it. I step out in pajama pants, one of Jackson’s ranch shirts hanging off my frame, slippers already damp with snow.
“Jackson!”
He drops the shovel like it burns him and rushes toward me.
“Baby, no —you’re gonna catch frostbite out here. Get back inside?—”
“I could say the same to you.” I hand him the cup. His hand brushes mine. I feel the heat of him through my cold fingers, and it nearly undoes me.
He reaches into his coat pocket. “Got something for you.”
He opens his palm. A small black box. I open it—and there it is. My pendant. The one Kenton ripped off my neck.
“I went to the clinic with Jensen to get your car. Denise had it. I… I got a new chain.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until I can’t breathe.
“Why are you crying?” His panic is audible through his shiver.
“I thought it was gone,” I whisper. “I thought he still had it. And… I miss you.”
His face falls like a man who’s been holding his breath for hours.
“I’m right here. The second you want me back in that house, I’m there.
” I step forward and bury myself in his chest, shaking.
“Oh, thank you, god,” I hear him whisper in relief as he holds me to him.
“Ozzy, it’s too cold out here,” I pull back and stare into his blue eyes.
“Come over tonight? Please,” I whisper.
“You never have to ask,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll be here.”
I head back inside, heart pounding. When I sit on the couch again, Theo’s got her arms crossed and a smirk on her face.
“Can you imagine,” she says to Niamh, “being in a relationship where you’re just, like… emotionally honest? All the time?”
“So healthy it’s disgusting ,” Niamh mutters, shaking her head with a grin. “I might throw up.”
I laugh—and it doesn’t feel forced. It feels real.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not just surviving.
I’m healing . And I’m not alone.
“Come in!” I call, half-drowsy from the steam, the soft slosh of water muffling my voice.
I hear the front door creak open, followed by heavy boots thudding against the hardwood. “You just letting anyone into your house these days?” Jackson’s voice calls out, rough from the cold, but already softening around the edges.
“You just texted me to say you were on your way,” I reply with a lazy smile, not even bothering to lift my head from the towel behind my neck.
There’s a tap on the bathroom door.
“Come in.”
The door opens slowly, his broad figure filling the frame. He tries not to look—really tries—but then he glances toward the tub, and I see the moment his breath stutters.
“Oh, come on,” I tease gently. “I’m old news by now.”
He lets out a dry, nervous laugh, like I’ve caught him doing something indecent. “Ozzy…” His eyes trace the curve of my shoulders, the line of bubbles slipping down my collarbone. “There will never be a day where you’re anything less than breathtaking.”
That ache in my chest? That’s love. The way my lip wobbles, how I reach a wet, trembling hand out for him to take? That’s everything I don’t have the words for.
He kneels beside the tub, his palm sliding into mine—ice cold against my overheated skin.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You trying to boil yourself alive in here?”
“Little dramatic, aren’t you?” I lean my head against the rolled towel, watching him with hooded eyes.
But I glance down and see it—his hand. His knuckles. Freshly split, with angry red splotches blooming over broken skin.
My body jerks upright, water sloshing around me. “Jackson.” I take his hand in mine and trace the torn flesh with a featherlight touch. “What… what did you do?”
His jaw flexes as he shrugs out of his coat, while muttering, “Doesn’t matter.”
I watch him wring out my towel over the sink and reach for another. “It does matter,” I whisper. “We don’t keep shit from each other. Remember?”
He presses the dry towel to the back of my neck, gentler than anyone has a right to be with fists like that. “He deserved it.”
“Jackson—”
“He ain’t dead,” he cuts in, rolling his eyes like I’m the one being dramatic now.
“But I did beat the shit out of him. Again. And I’m not sorry.
Not for a single second.” He steps back, just enough to pace once, like he can’t get it out fast enough, like the words are crawling under his skin and need to be exorcised.
“I don’t give a damn what’s socially acceptable or what Theo might say about it.
You’re my girl. And I don’t care how it sounds—I protect what’s mine.
” His voice cracks then. Just a hair, but I hear it.
He looks down at his busted knuckles. “I couldn’t let him breathe without knowing he’d paid for what he did to you. I love you and I won’t let that stand.”
The air stills. He blinks hard. Like he wants to stuff the words back into his mouth. “Shit. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—fuck, I wasn’t gonna say it like that?—”
“Jackson.”
He’s rambling now, standing by the sink with wide eyes and looking more scared than I’ve ever seen him.
“I just—I couldn’t take it. Thinking about what he did.
What you lived through. I swear to God, I would’ve set the whole town on fire if it meant taking that pain outta you.
And maybe that makes me a bastard or too much or—I don’t know—maybe it’ll scare you off, but I don’t know how to love halfway. I don’t want to. Not with you.”
I stand up in the tub, letting the water spill down my body, steam rising between us like smoke from something about to combust. I grab him by the shirt and I kiss him.
Hard.
It’s not soft or sweet or perfect—it’s a collision of everything we’ve been trying not to say. He makes a sound in the back of his throat like he’s breaking open, like he can’t believe I’m kissing him after that.
I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. My voice shakes when I say it, but I mean it with everything I have.
“I love you, too.”
His breath hitches. Then he’s on me again, his hands cupping my face, his lips chasing mine like he’s starved for this.
Starved for me.
The towel slips from his hand, forgotten on the floor.
“More,” I whisper, pulling his hand toward my breast. “Get in.”
Jackson chuckles “Baby, I’m a big man, and that’s a very small tub.”
“You said if I wanted you, you’d be there,” I remind him, rising slowly from the water. “Well, I want you. So figure it out.”
His eyes drag down my wet, glistening skin like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. “Yeah,” he whispers, wholly fixed on me as he staggers to remove his clothes. “I-I did say that, yep, man of my word, move over.” I snicker as he all but jumps into the tub.
We settle into the cramped space, my knees bent, water cresting over the sides. I lower myself slowly, his cock sliding inside me inch by inch.
“Oh… God,” I breathe out, bracing my hands on his thighs.
Jackson lets out a sharp breath, his head falling back against the tile. “Fuck, baby.”
He wraps one hand around my hip, the other sliding between my thighs. The pads of his fingers circle my clit, slow and teasing at first, then more demanding as I roll my hips.
“I love these piercings,” he mutters, twisting one of the bars through my nipple, making me whimper. “I love everything about you. I love you, Ozzy.”
I tilt my head back, grinding down onto him harder. “I love you Jackson. Mmhmm…you gonna come for me?” I whisper, voice heavy with want.
“Baby,” he groans. “You keep talking like that and I’m not gonna last.”
I clench around him and grin. “Then don’t.”
Water sloshes violently as he grabs my hips and starts to thrust up into me. I cry out, bracing against the tub walls.
“Fuck me like you own me,” I pant. “Make it rough.”
His hands grip harder. “You’re mine, Ozzy. Say it.”
“I’m yours. God, Jackson —I’m yours.”
“Say my name.”
“Jackson! Jackson, I’m so close?—”
And then I break. Shatter. My head drops to his shoulder as I cry out his name like it’s the only word I’ve ever known.
He follows seconds later, his body jerking beneath me, his arms wrapping tight around my waist like he’s scared I’ll disappear.
The room stills. Only the sound of our breathing, the faint slosh of water rocking against porcelain.
I stay there. Straddling him. Wrapped in his arms.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I whisper against the curve of his throat.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Not just tonight,” I say. “I mean… I want you here. With me. Always.”
He pulls back and searches my eyes. “Are you serious?”
I nod, fingers brushing his damp hair back from his forehead.
“I’m serious. I want you to live here. To come home to me. To wake up beside me. Every morning.”
Jackson kisses me like a promise, one hand coming to rest over my heart. “Yes. Always, baby. Always.”