Chapter Seventeen #2
But she whispered, “Jackson.” Just my name.
Soft. Reassuring. And the shame deflated out of me like a punctured tire.
She walked toward the hallway. Slowly. Like she was memorizing everything.
The photos. The chipped paint. The scuffed floorboards.
And not one hint of judgment touched her face.
I followed her, heartbeat doing its best impression of a machine gun.
When she reached my doorway, she stopped.
Looked inside. My room wasn’t much—cheap sheets, cracked dresser, boots lined up neat along the wall—but her breath caught like it meant something anyway.
We stepped inside and she turned to face me. For a second I forgot how to inhale.
Holly lifted her hands, barely brushing the hem of my T-shirt. “Is this ok?” she whispered.
My voice didn’t work. I nodded. Her fingers slid up, skimming my ribs, my chest, my shoulders.
Slow. Deliberate. Testing. Her hand shook once—barely—but I felt it like a lightning strike.
God, it killed me. Every instinct in me screamed to reach for her, to pull her in, to deepen this.
But I stayed still. Perfectly still. If she wanted distance, she’d get it.
If she wanted closeness, she’d take it. If she wanted control, it was hers.
She smoothed her palm over my collarbone, tracing muscle like she was learning a new language.
“Ok,” she whispered to herself. “Ok. I can do this.”
She wasn’t talking to me. Not really. She was talking to the old ghosts. I felt her touch everywhere. “I’m… not used to wanting to,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the fabric beneath her hand. “Usually, I want to run. Or freeze. Or…disappear.”
I swallowed hard. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”
Her laugh was shaky, more of a surrender than anything. Still, I didn’t move. Not an inch. Just breathed slow so she could feel the rise and fall under her palm. Her hand slid up my chest, trembling but determined.
“This feels…weird,” she murmured. Her voice tightened on the last word. “But good weird. Not bad weird.”
“Good weird is allowed,” I said softly.
She nodded once, eyes darting up, then back to her own hand like she couldn’t trust herself to look at me too long.
“I keep expecting my brain to freak out,” she whispered. “Tell me to stop. Tell me I’m doing something wrong. But it’s…quiet.”
Her thumb traced my collarbone.
“And that scares me,” she admitted. “Because I want to keep touching you. And wanting is…complicated.”
My throat felt too tight for words, but I forced them out. “You’re allowed to want things, Holly.”
“I know,” she said automatically—then paused. “Actually…I don’t. Not really. But I’m trying.” Her fingers drifted to my shoulder, following the seam of my shirt, slow and searching.
“I need you to know something,” she said, voice low but steadier now. “I’m not doing this because of the kiss. Or because you’re leaving again. I’m doing it because I chose to come here. I chose you. This moment.”
I swear I almost broke right there. Her palm flattened over my sternum.
“Is this ok?” she asked.
“Whatever you want,” I said, “Whatever you need. It’s fine by me.”
Her breath hitched—but she didn’t pull away. Instead she rested her forehead against my chest, her voice muffled. “Good. Because I want to know what it feels like to touch someone without bracing for pain.”
My hands clenched at my sides. I couldn’t touch her yet.
Not unless she asked. Not unless she showed me she was steady enough.
She slid her hand down my ribs, over my stomach, then back up again—mapping me with trembling fingers.
My pulse punched against her palm, and she froze before finally looked up at me—eyes glassy but bright, cheeks flushed, courage battling fear.
“I want something good tonight,” she said.
“Something that’s mine. Not something taken from me. ”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Tell me what you want me to do, Malibu.”
She swallowed, pressing her hand firmly against my chest.
“Just…stay still,” she murmured. “And let me learn you. At my pace.”
“Whatever you want,” I said again. And meant every word.
Her fingers drifted up my throat, along my jaw, the side of my face. Slow. Deliberate.
Claiming ground inch by inch. She was breathing harder now—soft little pulls of air she was trying (and failing) to hide.
Her hands were warm on my stomach, tracing slow, unsure lines like she was learning a language she hadn’t spoken in years.
Then she pulled back just enough to look up at me, hair falling across her cheek, eyes wide and scared and wanting all at once.
“Jackson?” she whispered.
“Yeah, Malibu?”
Her throat bobbed. “Can…can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She closed her eyes for half a second like she needed to steady herself, then whispered, “I just want to feel you. Skin on skin. Just before you go.”
The words hit like a fist to my chest. Not lust. Not shock. Just… trust. The kind that made your knees go weak.
“You sure?” I asked, voice rough.
“Yes.” A breath. “Please.”
I exhaled slowly, carefully—like if I moved wrong the whole moment might shatter. “Ok,” I said softly. “Come here.”
She stepped closer, fingers curling into the hem of her sweatshirt. And then, slowly—giving her time to stop, to rethink, to run if she needed—I lifted it up and over her head.
A simple bra. Bare shoulders. Bare stomach. Nothing sexual in her eyes. Just honesty. She was letting me see her—really see her—without armor.
My breath left me in one long exhale. “Holly…”
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said quickly, but her voice wavered. “Like I’m breakable.”
“You’re not breakable,” I said. “You’re brave. That’s what I’m looking at.”
Her cheeks flushed, lips parting, and she whispered, “Your turn.”
I swallowed once, then tugged my shirt over my head and tossed it onto the foot of the bed.
And the second I did, she froze. Not with fear.
With…something else entirely. Her eyes swept over my chest, the tattoo over my ribs, the faint scars from all the dumb shit I’d done over the years.
She reached out—slow, intentional—and pressed both palms to my chest.
My damn heartbeat stuttered under her hands.
She stepped closer, until her forehead rested against my collarbone. The press of her stomach to mine, bare skin to bare skin, made every muscle in my body go rigid—but not for the reason I expected.
Her arms slid around my waist, tentative at first, then firmer when she realized I wasn’t going anywhere. I wrapped my arms around her carefully—slow, visible, giving her every second to stop me if she needed.
She didn’t. Instead, she buried her face in my throat and whispered, “I didn’t think I’d ever want to be this close to anyone again.”
My arms tightened fractionally—not pulling her closer, just holding her there like she was something precious and breakable, even if she insisted she wasn’t.
“You don’t have to rush anything,” I murmured into her hair. “We can do this however you need.”
“I know.” Her fingertips traced the line of my spine. “And that’s why I want this. You.”
We stood there like that—slow breaths syncing, skin-to-skin, her heartbeat rabbiting against my chest—until her muscles softened and her shaking eased.
After a minute, she said, “Can we…lie down? Not for anything more. Just…to be close.”
“You never have to explain wanting something,” I said. “Come here.”
I guided her to the bed—letting her climb in first, letting her choose the position—and when she settled on her side, I slid in behind her.
Not touching. Not yet. Letting her decide how far she wanted this to go.
Then she reached back, took my hand, and pulled my arm around her waist. Her back pressed to my chest, bare skin warm against mine, her breath stuttering before finally settling.
After a long, trembling moment, she said it—quiet, fragile, but real: “Jackson…don’t forget this. Don’t forget me.”
I rested my chin on the top of her head. “Impossible.”
Her fingers tangled with mine. And for the first time in my life, I fell asleep holding something I was terrified to lose.