Chapter Thirty-Four
? Holly ?
I hadn’t expected it to feel so strange having him here.
I’d always imagined this moment. The first night together, the sound of his voice echoing down a hallway, the way his eyes found mine in a crowded room.
In my head it had always been cinematic.
But real life was quieter. Softer. Awkward in the way grief never warned me about.
Jackson stood in the doorway of my apartment in Athens with his duffel slung over one shoulder, ready to retreat if I so much as blinked wrong.
The air in my apartment felt too polite for him.
No oil, no leather, no trace of the world he came from.
His boots squeaked against the hardwood, loud in the stillness.
He winced at the noise, like he was breaking something sacred.
I stood frozen in the hallway, just staring at him.
Part of me wanted to bolt; another part wanted to drag him inside and never let him leave again.
I didn’t even know what made me say it that night.
We had been sitting outside the clubhouse when he admitted he couldn’t go back to that single-wide trailer with the ghost of a woman who’d forgotten him.
Something in me wanted to revolt at the lost look in his eyes.
Eyes that, before, had always been sharp as steel.
Warm, cold. Kind, angry. But never lost. The words had come out before I could stop them.
“Move in with me.”
He’d stared at me like I’d spoken another language. “What?”
“Come live with me.”
“Malibu…you don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
My tone was firm, confident. Somehow I managed to keep that one word from shaking.
But it had been a lie. I wasn’t sure. Not even a little.
In fact, I was strongly considering getting my head checked.
But as I sat there with him…I’d just known the thought of him going back there made my chest cave in.
He’d opened his mouth to argue, to tell me it was a bad idea, but I’d kept talking because if I stopped, I’d lose my nerve. “You said you don’t have a home anymore. Well, I’ve got one. Big enough for both of us.”
He’d looked at the ground, thumb rubbing the edge of his cane. “Malibu…”
“I’m not saying you have to,” I’d said. “I just…it makes sense.”
The silence afterward had felt like standing on a cliff, waiting to see if he’d jump too. Then he’d nodded once—barely—and said, “Ok.”
Now he was actually here, and the air hummed with everything unspoken.
Everything in my apartment was neat. Books lined up by color, candles never lit, throw pillows sitting just right.
Maria teased me that she was going to have to give Jewel a pack of donuts and then just let her loose in here.
To make it feel real, lived in. But I liked it like this.
It looked calm, curated. The exact opposite of how I felt, especially in that moment.
Jackson set his duffel down and glanced around like Dorothy in Oz. “Is it always this sterile, or did you just hide the body?”
I arched a brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
A ghost of a grin crossed his face then he cleared his throat. “I can take the couch.”
I blinked at him, my head going in a million different places, none of them good. The fucking couch? “You can’t be serious.”
“I just figured you’d want space. After—”
“I’ve had space,” I cut in. “Too much of it. You’re not sleeping on my couch, Jackson.”
I need you next to me, damn it. I couldn’t say it. But I didn’t have to.
He nodded, surrendering, and followed me down the short hallway.
My bedroom was as spotless as the rest of the apartment—pale curtains, soft lamp light, a bed that took up half the room.
His gaze moved around the room, landing on the framed photos on the dresser: Maria, Jewel, and Diego, the girls at Willows Harbor, a snapshot of me, Mom and Hannah from last Christmas.
There was guilt in his eyes, like he was trespassing on something good.
“You sure about this?” he asked, fingers tightening around his cane.
“Jackson.” I tilted my head toward the bed. “It’s late. Get in.”
He hesitated, then dropped the duffel and eased down onto the mattress like it might explode. I shut the bedroom door, and the silence stretched long enough for me to hear every heartbeat in the room.
I went into the bathroom to get changed.
Safe behind the recently replaced door, I slid onto the floor.
Dalton and Maria had found me here so close to death.
That felt like ages ago. And now…where the fuck did we go from here?
I took a few steadying breaths, dug the six months sobriety coin out of my pocket, said a prayer to a god I didn’t always believe in, and got dressed before crawling into bed next to him.
He watched me as I slid under the sheets, his eyes widening as I passed through the dim light of the window. “Hey,” he said, voice rough. “That’s mine.”
I glanced down at the faded red jersey hanging off my shoulders. It went down to mid-thigh and I always wore it to bed; I hadn’t thought twice before putting it on. “Yeah. I know.”
“Where’d you even—” He stopped himself. “I haven’t seen that thing since…”
“Diego gave it to me,” I said softly. “After your funeral.” The word hung heavy between us. His jaw flexed. “I sleep in it,” I added, wincing at the obvious statement. “It helped me feel like you were still here.”
His breath caught. Those gray eyes I had missed so much met my hazel ones. “It looks better on you anyway.”
I didn’t have words, so I moved closer until my head rested against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath my ear. Proof that the universe had given me back something I had never expected it to.
“You’re really here,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I am.”
We fell asleep like that—two people who’d already buried each other once, clinging like maybe this time the world would let us keep what was left.
I woke once in the middle of the night to find our legs tangled together.
His arm had slipped around my waist, hand resting against the curve of my hip like muscle memory.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The room was dark, quiet except for his heartbeat under my ear and the faint rasp of his breathing.
I told myself not to move. Not to ruin it.
But his fingers twitched, and then he murmured my name in his sleep—soft, almost reverent—and every piece of me that had been frozen since that ten-gun salute thawed just a little.
The next morning he was unpacking his bag, a task I’d assumed would take five minutes and a single drawer. I’d already cleared out space for him in the closet. Half an afternoon of reorganizing, folding, and cursing myself for caring what my hangers looked like.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “You should feel blessed. That closet was sacred territory.”
He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Malibu, the inch of emptiness in that closet isn’t space. It’s a hostage negotiation.”
“Hey, I made room.”
“Barely.” He smirked. “Good thing I don’t own much.”
The banter made the apartment feel alive again. Like old times, before loss became the only language we spoke. I grinned, shaking my head as I went to grab a drink from the kitchen.
When I came back, the laughter died before it hit my throat.
Three prescription bottles sat neatly on my dresser. Their white labels caught the light, names I didn’t need to read. Oxycodone. Cyclobenzaprine. Lorazepam.
He was bent over his duffel, pulling out a folded T-shirt, completely unaware that my world had just narrowed to those orange bottles.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My vision tunneled.
I was on my bathroom floor again. Back before rehab, before the nights spent chasing numb.
My palms went clammy, heartbeat turning jagged.
“Jackson.” My voice came out too sharp.
He looked up, brow furrowed. “What?”
“Why are those on my dresser?”
He glanced over, confusion flickering into realization. “Oh. The meds. They were in my bag. I figured I’d keep them where I can reach them.”
“Yeah, well, I can reach them too.”
That pulled his eyes to mine—steady, cautious, like he was piecing together something dangerous. “Yeah?”
I crossed my arms. “They can’t stay here.”
“I need them, babe,” he said quietly. “They’re prescribed. For pain.”
I knew that. God, I knew that. The logical part of me understood he needed them. His leg still ached, his ribs were a mess, his sleep habits were probably worse than mine, but logic had nothing on the flood that hit when I saw those bottles.
“I don’t care what they’re for. I just—” I stopped, forcing air into my lungs. Forcing myself to see past the haze of panic in my mind. “You can’t leave them out like that.”
His expression softened instantly. “Ok, no problem.”
“I went…it got bad. I just, please. Put them somewhere else.”
He set the shirt down and limped over, moving slow, careful not to startle me. “Malibu,” he said gently, “it’s ok. You don’t have to explain. I got you.”
“It’s not—” I bit the inside of my cheek. “It’s not about trust or even about you. It’s about…temptation. And me. One bad day, one sleepless night, and it’s right there.”
He nodded once, no argument, no pride. Just quiet understanding. Then he reached for the bottles, screwed the caps tight, and held them out. “Where do you want them?”
I pointed to the bathroom. “Top shelf. And I want a lock.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”
When the click of the cabinet latch finally sounded, I could breathe again—but barely. He turned back, leaning on the doorframe, watching me like he wasn’t sure if he should reach out or give me space. “You ok?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You never have to apologize to me.”
For a long time, neither of us moved. The space between us was full of ghosts, but at least this time, they weren’t winning.