Chapter Thirteen #3
The baby chose that moment to move—a small, insistent pressure against Jackson’s side, visible even through his flannel shirt. He set down his fork with careful attention, one hand moving to rest against the curve of his stomach without appearing to decide to put it there.
“Strong today,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Probably the adrenaline. Doctor says they respond to stress hormones. Makes them active.”
I nodded, understanding without being told that this was Jackson’s way of sharing something he still wasn’t comfortable naming—the truth that had been growing inside him for four months without his permission or participation.
“Can I?” I asked, the question coming out before I could stop it.
Jackson held my gaze for a long moment, something complicated moving behind his eyes. Then he nodded once, slow, and shifted slightly in his chair—not quite an invitation, but close enough that I counted it as one.
I reached across the table, palm up, waiting. Jackson hesitated for a fraction of a second, then placed his hand in mine—warm, callused, a man who’d spent ten years doing things most people only saw in movies.
He guided my hand to the curve of his stomach, positioning it just below his navel with careful attention. For a moment, nothing happened—just the warmth of skin under flannel, the slight firmness that hadn’t been there three months ago.
Then it came—a small, insistent pressure against my palm, a movement so deliberate it caught me off guard despite everything I’d been told to expect. Not quite a kick, not quite a roll, but something adjacent to both that made my chest tight for a second.
“Jesus,” I said, the word coming out before I could stop it.
Jackson’s mouth curved slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “First time’s always something.”
We sat like that for a long moment—my hand on Jackson’s stomach, his hand on mine, the baby moving between us with the insistence that meant it had an agenda of its own.
Outside, the team continued their work—securing the perimeter, running IDs, moving the ranch to whatever condition Rawley had decided was necessary.
Inside, we sat at the kitchen table with our coffee going cold and our hands still connected with everything we still hadn’t said suddenly too present to ignore.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said finally, the words coming out level despite the pressure behind my sternum. “Whatever happens with Peterson. Whatever comes through that door. I’m not leaving you to handle it alone.”
Something flashed across Jackson’s face—too quick to catch, gone before I could name it. Then his expression settled back into careful neutrality, the control that meant he was working hard to keep himself together.
“I know,” he said, his voice steady. “Coffee cup stays, remember?”
It wasn’t “I want you here” or “this is permanent” or any of the clean statements that would have made the next conversation simpler. Just “coffee cup stays,” delivered from a man who measured his promises in actions rather than words.
It was enough. More than enough, from a man who’d spent thirty years building his life around the absolute certainty that no one would be there to catch him if he fell.
We finished breakfast in comfortable silence—Jackson working through his eggs with methodical attention, me watching him over the rim of my coffee cup.
We sat at the kitchen table, not quite partners, not quite strangers, but something that made my chest tight whenever I tried to name it.
The morning had fully arrived now—light spilling across the kitchen floor in a long rectangle, the greenhouse glass catching the sun below the porch, turning from clear to gold.
Somewhere in the distance, a vehicle engine started—Rawley, probably, headed for the farmhouse with whatever security he’d decided we needed.
Jackson pushed back his chair with careful attention, already reaching for our empty plates. “I should call Jasper,” he said, his voice level. “Let him know what happened. He’ll want to check the baby, make sure everything’s okay.”
I nodded, understanding without being told that this was Jackson’s way of managing what came next—which meant he was already three steps ahead, already running scenarios, already making the kind of assessments that had kept him alive through ten years of active duty.
“I’ll handle the team,” I said, already moving toward the door. “Get you a full report on what we know.”
Jackson nodded, already reaching for his phone. “Copy that,” he said, the words coming out of a man who’d spent ten years in military briefings.
I paused at the door, one hand on the frame, and looked back at him—standing in the kitchen with a phone in one hand and a dish towel in the other, moving through the sequence that had become his default.
“We’re good,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “Whatever happens with Peterson. Whatever comes through that door. We’re handling it.”
Something flashed across Jackson’s face—too quick to catch, gone before I could name it. Then his expression settled back into careful neutrality, the kind of control that meant he was working hard to keep himself together.
“I know,” he said, his voice steady. “Coffee’s on the counter if you want more.”
I stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind me with careful attention. The morning had fully arrived now—light spilling across the valley in a long sweep, turning everything gold where it touched.
In the distance, Rawley’s truck was visible on the main road—headed for the farmhouse with whatever security he’d decided we needed.
I keyed my earpiece, got immediate confirmation from Wade that the perimeter was secure, then started down the porch steps toward whatever came next.
Behind me, through the kitchen window, Jackson moved around making a second pot of coffee—something that he’d done it a hundred times before.
I still didn’t have a clean word for the emotions that welled up in my chest. I wasn’t sure either of us were ready to define it. I also wasn’t sure we had the time to find out.