48. Jack
JACK
D erek’s voice is finally gone. No more calls through lawyers, no more packages pushed through shell companies.
Jail walls mean what they should now, silence.
For the first time in months, I don’t wake expecting his shadow to find its way under the door.
What waits for me instead is lighter, steadier. Mine.
The morning light spills through the windows, warm across the room like it’s in on the secret, that Emma’s here, and today feels different.
I’m up before the city decides to get loud. Habit, mostly. And the kind of nerves that mean something good is coming. I set the kettle on, line up mugs like a plan, pour orange juice into a tall glass that catches the light. Beyond the glass, the skyline is a pencil sketch warming into color.
A door down the hall opens. Soft step, softer pause. Ivy appears first, a loose sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, hair in a knot. Her eyes find mine and the tension between my shoulder blades lets go a notch.
“How’d you sleep?” she asks, voice low for the closed door at the end of the hall.
“Like I was waiting for something good,” I say. It isn’t a line. “You?”
“Enough. She was up once, but back to bed.”
I hand her tea. She takes it like it’s more than a drink.
Another small sound from the hallway, then she’s there, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, hair in yesterday’s braid. She pauses in the doorway, measuring the room.
“Morning,” I say. “We’ve got orange juice, apple juice, or hot chocolate. And… other things.” I gesture toward the counter, toast, cereal, strawberries.
“Hot chocolate’s fine,” she says.
“Marshmallows?” Ivy asks.
“Sure,” Emma replies.
I watch Ivy make it exactly the way she asked. Emma takes the mug and leans on the island. The sticker on her bag, DELETE MY brOWSER HISTORY, still makes me want to laugh, but I let it sit.
“We thought we’d keep today light,” I tell her. “You set the pace. There’s a bookstore nearby.”
She nods. “Bookstore is fine.”
“Good. Jacket, it’s cooler than it looks.”
When she heads back to her room, I exhale into my hands.
“You’re perfect,” Ivy murmurs.
“I’m not. But I’m here.”
“That’s the point.”
She touches my jaw. “I’ll tag along for the bookstore mission. You two take the lead.”
***
We walk. The air’s got that early edge that makes your lungs believe the day will cooperate. Emma scans the storefronts like she’s memorizing the neighborhood.
The bookstore smells like paper and binding glue, the kind of peace you don’t have to name.
Emma drifts to the used paperbacks with creased spines.
She chooses a novel and a collection of graphic essays, then detours to a sticker rack.
Without fuss, she picks one and hands it to Ivy: Trust People Who Bring Snacks.
“Strong policy,” Ivy says, smiling.
Next door, the art store is quick, mechanical pencils, a brush pen, a tin of leads. On the walk back, Ivy tells a story about a watercolor disaster. Emma’s mouth tilts, small, but it’s there.
***
At home, lunch is eggs and toast. Emma eats without prompting. When she’s done, she disappears to her room.
“You don’t have to fill silence,” Ivy tells me.
“I know. Doing it’s the trick,” I reply.
“They’re engaged,” Emma says, and I almost smile.
Emma reappears later with running gear. “Is there… a place I could run?”
“There’s a path along the river,” I tell her. “I’ll go with you. Or Santiago. Or no one. Your call.”
“Maybe later,” she says with a small smile. “I need to nap first.” The jet lag is still written all over her face, and she disappears into the guest room.
***
By the time Ivy preheats the oven, the quiet of the apartment has settled into something soft and unhurried. “Brownies are a moral imperative,” she declares. Emma, catching the sticker on Ivy’s phone before slipping away, actually laughs.
Hours drift by. We bake. We eat. We relax. The day unspools lazily, and Emma sleeps so long we exchange a glance that says neither of us is surprised. When she finally reappears, it’s only to murmur a good night before closing her door again.
When the light under her door fades, I go to Ivy. Her back’s against the counter, her eyes reading me like a map.
“She let us in a little today,” she says.
“She did. And I need you to hear this, I’m in. All the way. You and Emma… you’re it. My family. No question marks.”
Her eyes soften. “Jack…”
“I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I love you too. And I’m here. For both of you.”
I kiss her, slow at first, until it isn’t. Her hands slide under my shirt, warm against my skin, nails just enough to make my breath hitch.
“I want you. Now.”
Her smile’s a dare. “Then come here.”
I lift her onto the counter, her knees parting to pull me in.
My hands find her hips, thumbs tracing the line where skin meets cotton.
I pull her sweatshirt over her head in one motion, her hair tumbling free.
I take a moment, just to look at her, bare shoulders catching the kitchen light, pupils wide.
She tugs my shirt up, fingers brushing over my chest like she’s memorizing it again. The shirt hits the floor. I kiss her harder, until we’re both breathing like we’ve been running.
I slide my hands beneath the waistband of her leggings, thumbs hooking in soft fabric, easing it down as she leans back slightly to let them fall away. I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, feeling the shiver run through her before I stand and lift her off the counter.
Her arms wrap around my neck, mouth hot against my jaw as I carry her down the hall. In the bedroom, I set her on the bed but don’t follow right away. I just stand there a second, taking in the sight, hair loose, lips parted, looking at me like she already knows I’m hers.
When I climb in beside her, my hands roam, over her stomach, her ribs, the swell of her breasts. She arches into me, eyes fluttering when I take my time with my mouth on her, tasting skin still warm from the day. Her fingers thread into my hair, urging me closer.
I move lower, slow enough to make her whisper my name, and when I finally push my dick inside her, she gasps, soft and wrecked and perfect. My forehead rests against hers as we find the rhythm, her nails dragging down my back, pulling me deeper.
There’s no rush. Just the kind of heat that builds until it’s impossible to hold back.
Her legs wrap tight around me, her breath catching as her body tightens around mine.
I kiss her through it, through the sharp crest and the fall, until we’re both shaking and still pressed as close as two people can be.
I stay inside her, hand cradling the back of her head. “You’re my family. Always.”
Her lips curve against my skin. “Guess I’d better get used to that.”
We lie there in the afterglow, the city dim beyond the glass, her body warm against mine.
I think about rings and vows and the way the word wife would sound in my mouth.
And somewhere down the hall, Emma is sleeping in her room, part of this now, in ways that matter.
I don’t say any of it. Not yet. I just hold Ivy, letting the night fold around us, knowing the next step is already waiting.