Chapter Thirteen
? Jackson ?
I woke up Sunday morning with Diego’s elbow jammed into my spine.
Technically, we had a bed. A queen. Large enough for two grown men.
Technically. In reality, Diego slept like he was reenacting a homicide, and I ended up half off the mattress, clinging to the edge like the hero in an action movie refusing to fall from the skyscraper.
I shoved him. He groaned, rolled, and took the blanket with him.
Figures. We’d crashed in the spare room—one of the few spaces August and Hannah never fully finished decorating.
Bed, dresser, nightstand. Functional. No nonsense.
It smelled like cedar and laundry detergent.
Mac had his room. Dalton had the room across the hall.
And the girls got August and Hannah’s room because it was the only one with a bathroom attached—plus, Hannah would’ve murdered us if we’d stuck a pregnant girl anywhere else.
I stretched, bones popping, and made my way to the kitchen.
The cabin was quiet. Warm. Early sun slanted through the windows and painted the whole place gold.
The coffee pot was full. Mac had set it on a timer before we all went to bed.
I grabbed a mug and filled it to the brim.
Black. Hot enough to maim. Exactly how I needed it.
I’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep.
Every time I drifted off, I jolted awake thinking about Holly’s waist in my hand.
The way she smelled like coconut sunscreen and lake water.
The way she’d looked at me like I wasn’t just some jock from a busted trailer.
Like maybe I was something more. Footsteps padded behind me, and I didn’t even have to turn around.
“Morning,” Holly mumbled, voice soft and scratchy with sleep.
I turned. And almost aspirated my own soul.
Matching silk pajamas. Shorts that were basically a suggestion.
Tank top that clung like she’d been poured into it.
Blonde hair in a messy knot. Eyes heavy from sleep.
She looked…soft. Feminine. Disarmed. A version of Holly I’d never seen before.
The kind of girl I’d burn in hell for. Without thinking, I handed her the steaming mug.
She took it like she trusted me not to poison her.
She sniffed the coffee, recoiled, and marched to the fridge. “Absolutely not. I am not raw-dogging caffeine like a psychopath.” She grabbed the creamer. Not just “a splash.” Half the mug. Maybe more.
“You want some coffee with your sugar?” I asked.
She sipped it with a blissful sigh. “Yes. It’s perfect.”
I stared at her. “That’s not coffee.”
“It has coffee in it.”
“Barely.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s good.”
I wanted to roll my eyes so hard they detached.
Instead, I found myself watching her. The way she curled her fingers around the mug.
The way her bare legs brushed against each other as she shifted her weight.
The way the morning light traced her shoulders, her collarbone.
I didn’t know where to put my hands. Or my sanity.
“So,” she said, staring into her mug like it held state secrets, “about last night.” She finally raised her eyes, expression unreadable. “What was it?”
God, I hated not having the answers sometimes. I could tell she needed them. Clarity meant safety to her. So, I kept my voice low. Gentle. Controlled. Gave her the only answer I had. “It was real.”
Her breath hitched.
But then she shook her head, shutters slamming back down. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
She gave a bitter, crooked almost-smile. “You’re leaving, Jackson.”
Yeah. That was the anvil over both our heads. I stepped closer. Just a fraction. Enough that her shoulder almost brushed my chest. “Holly,” I said, slow and raw. “I’m leaving. I’m not disappearing.”
She looked away like the words hurt. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know.”
I forced a laugh, rough around the edges. “I’m not simple. You’re not simple. Nothing about us is simple.”
She scoffed into her coffee. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
We stood in the stillness, steam rising between us.
And God, I wanted to reach for her. Wanted to tuck that messy hair behind her ear.
Wanted to pull her close and pretend basic training didn’t exist. Instead, I poured myself another cup of coffee and said, “Let’s go outside. Air’s good this early.”
She hesitated. Then nodded once. We stepped out onto the porch, lake fog curling around our ankles. For a moment, we just stood there, side by side, watching the world wake up.
She whispered, “I’m scared.”
I turned to look at her, heart thudding. “Of me?”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “Of…wanting something. He hurt me, Jackson. Badly.”
My throat tightened, I gripped my cup so hard I was surprised it didn’t crack. “I know. But Holly…I would never hurt you. Never.”
She looked out over the lake and her next words were so quiet I wasn’t sure I heard them. “I think I am starting to get that.”
Our shoulders touched. Light. Barely. Like a promise neither of us was brave enough to say out loud yet. Then the cabin door behind us banged open.
“Good morning, children!” Dalton hollered. “Who wants eggs?!”
Holly sighed dramatically. “And the moment is dead.”
I couldn’t stop the grin. “Yeah. He’s good for that.”
She hid her smile behind her mug. But she smiled. And that felt like winning something I didn’t even know I’d been competing for.
Breakfast with the guys was always a feral experience, but this morning it felt like it was happening in slow motion.
Mac stood at the stove flipping pancakes with the precision of a neurosurgeon.
Dalton was aggressively stealing them off the cooling rack like a raccoon in human form.
Diego sat at the table, rubbing sleep out of his eyes while Maria loudly proclaimed that coffee was, in fact, not bad for pregnant women in moderation and then poured herself a cup that nearly overflowed.
And Holly padded around the kitchen in those damn silk pajamas, sipping her dessert-in-a-mug coffee, avoiding eye contact with me like looking at me too long might melt something she didn’t want melted.
The whole place smelled like syrup and butter and safety.
I should have felt peaceful. Instead, something ugly and electric twisted tight beneath my ribs.
Five days. I had five days before I left.
Before I wasn’t here anymore. Before early mornings meant drill instructors screaming, and not Holly with bedhead and creamer breath.
Before the only people I saw were strangers in uniforms—not Mac, not Dalton, not Diego, not Maria.
Not her. My fork hovered halfway to my mouth before I noticed I hadn’t taken a bite in five minutes.
“Jackson,” Dalton said around a mouthful of stolen pancake, “you good?”
It was such a stupid question. Such a Dalton question. The easy answer—the lie—stuck in my throat. “—yeah,” I managed.
Diego looked up, sharper than the rest. “He’s thinking again. Dangerous.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, but it came out tired.
Mac slid into the seat across from me, tapping his fingers against the table. “Five days.”
I didn’t ask how he knew what was in my head. Mac always knew.
“Big change,” he said softly. “It’s ok to freak out about it.”
Dalton snorted. “I freaked out when I lost my favorite hoodie. This is, like, ten times worse.”
Diego deadpanned, “Dalton, you nearly cried because you thought a squirrel stole it.”
“The squirrel was suspicious,” Dalton argued.
Holly laughed—quiet but real—and something warm pushed through the fear coiled inside me.
I chewed one bite, two, forcing my stomach to accept food. “I’m not freaking out.”
Maria raised a brow. “Your hand is literally shaking.”
I looked down. Damn it. It was.
Holly set her mug down. “It’d be weird if you weren’t scared,” she said, voice way gentler than I was prepared for. “Basic is…huge. And brave. And…” Her eyes flicked up to mine. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”
I swallowed hard. We all stared at her. Because hearing her say that? Yeah. That hit somewhere I wasn’t armored. “Thanks,” I said quietly. She nodded, cheeks pink like maybe she hadn’t meant to say all that out loud.
Mac clapped me on the back. “We’re proud of you.”
Dalton slapped the other shoulder. Hard. On purpose. “Yeah, but like…don’t die.”
“Dalton,” Maria hissed.
“What?! Someone had to say it!”
I groaned. Underneath the table, Holly’s leg brushed mine.
By noon we were stripping beds, loading bags, folding towels, and pretending this wasn’t the last carefree morning I’d have in a long time.
Mac carried the trash to the truck. Maria marched around threatening to disembowel us all because none of us were willing to let her lift anything heavier than a bag of chips.
Diego lugged a box of leftover snacks across the deck, grumbling.
Dalton sprayed himself with bug repellant like he was painting a fence.
Holly was stuffing her bag into the truck, face slightly pinched like she didn’t love the idea of going home either.
The air felt thick. Heavy. Like a balloon stretched too tight.
We piled into August’s massive truck. Holly climbed into the back beside me.
The first thirty minutes of the drive were quiet—radio humming, Dalton telling some story none of us were listening to, Maria half-asleep on Diego’s shoulder.
But every bump, every turn, every shift of the truck had Holly’s leg sliding against mine.
By the fourth time, something in me snapped.
Fuck it. I reached over and let my fingers brush the back of her hand.
She froze.