Chapter 7 Jackson #2
“Died when I was eight. Firefighter. Line of duty.” The words come out flat, practiced. “Mom never remarried.”
“I’m sorry.” She tilts her head, studying me. “That must have been hard. Growing up without him.”
“It was.” I lean back, watching her gradually unfold. Each question she asks, she sits up a little straighter. “Do you see your mom often?”
“Not enough. Maybe twice a year.”
“That must be hard. For both of you.”
“It is.” I could take my turn now, but she’s on a roll. Her voice is finding its rhythm, that analytical mind starting to surface. “What about your family?”
“Parents in Chicago. Dad teaches mathematics. Mom’s a lawyer.”
“Still together?”
“Somehow, yes. Thirty-five years.” She tilts her head, studying me. “They think I make bad choices.”
“Do you?”
“Probably.” She pulls the sleeves down over her hands. “Nathan was definitely a bad choice.”
The fact that she’s volunteering information without prompting—this is progress. Major progress. I want to keep her talking, keep hearing this voice that Nathan tried to silence.
“My turn. Question six. Why did you stop talking?”
“Asked and answered, already.” She goes still again. When she speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “But it was easier than being told I was too much.”
“You’re not too much.”
She considers this, head tilted. “Are you with someone? In a relationship?”
“No.”
“When’s the last time you were?”
“That’s two questions.”
“You let me ask five in a row earlier.”
She’s right. And the fact that she noticed—that she’s pushing back even slightly—is progress.
“Three years ago. Ended when I got back from Syria.”
“What happened?”
“I came back different. Couldn’t let anyone close. Couldn’t trust. She tried for a year, then gave up.”
The truth is darker. After Syria, after Amara’s betrayal—Mitchell’s asset who radioed our position while I was still inside her—no one’s touched me.
Not really.
The encounters are all the same. Like the woman in the bar. My fingers bringing them to climax, their mouths on me, then done. No kissing. No lingering touches. No tenderness. Just a means to an end, getting off without vulnerability. No names, no numbers, no second meetings.
No one gets close enough to betray me.
But Talia? She’s touched me more in the last twenty-four hours than any woman has in three years. Her hands on my skin while tending my wounds. Gentle. Careful. The kind of touch I haven’t allowed since before Syria. The kind that means something.
“That must have been lonely,” she says softly.
“It was necessary.” I study her face. “My turn. What scares you most right now?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “That I’ll never be normal. That Nathan broke something in me that can’t be fixed.”
“Nothing about you needs fixing.”
“But—”
“My turn for a follow-up. Do you want to be normal? Really?”
She blinks at the question. “I—I don’t know. I want to not feel wrong all the time.”
“Question eight. Are you hungry?”
She blinks at the shift. “What?”
“Food. Have you eaten? Because we’ve been doing this for an hour and you need calories.”
“I … No.”
I stand. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen. I’m making you food.”
“That’s not a question.”
“No. It’s a necessity.”
She unfolds from the couch slowly, following me to the kitchen. I find pasta, canned sauce, and start the water boiling. She sits at the small table, watching me work.
“Why do you care if I eat?” she asks quietly.
“Is that question nine?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re my responsibility. And because …” I turn to face her. “Because Nathan made you feel like you were too much. Like you took up too much space. But you barely take up any space at all. You’re trying to disappear.”
And because I’m hard again. Harder than before. Just from hearing her voice get stronger, from watching her slowly unfold. From the way she tilts her head when she thinks, and how she peeks up at me through those lashes.
Christ, I need release. Need something. But cooking will have to do. Something to keep my hands busy before I do something stupid.
“Maybe disappearing is safer.”
“Maybe. But it’s no way to live.”
The water boils. I add pasta and stir the sauce. Simple, basic, but she needs food. Needs someone to take care of her without making her feel small for needing it.
My cock’s still rock hard, pressing against my zipper like it’s trying to escape. Not going down. If anything, watching her sit, bare legs tucked under her, it’s getting worse.
I’m going to have to handle this on my own after she goes to bed. Take myself in hand in the shower, stroke it rough and fast until I come thinking about those golden eyes going dark with want. About how she’d sound if I actually touched her the way her body’s begging for.
But for now, I cook. Because she needs this more than I need release.
“Last question,” I say. “For both of us.”
She nods.
“What do you need right now? In this moment?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she won’t answer. Then: “To feel like I’m not too much.”
“You’re not. My turn to answer.” I plate the pasta and set it in front of her. “What do I need? For you to eat. To stop trying to disappear. To believe me when I say Nathan was wrong about you.”
She picks up the fork, takes a small bite. Then another.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For the food?”
“For seeing me and not the mess Nathan left behind. But me.”
The words settle between us, heavy with meaning.
“I see you,” I confirm. “Question eleven, breaking the rules. Will you stop trying to disappear?”
She meets my eyes. “I’ll try.”
It’s a start.