2. Jessica #3
It's not a question. It's a command disguised as one syllable.
"Because—" I gesture around the apartment. At the space that's mine even if it's terrible. "I live here."
"Not anymore."
"You can't just?—"
"Jessica." He says my name like he's already decided and I'm wasting time arguing.
"This apartment isn't safe. The lock's a joke.
The neighborhood's worse. You can't afford the doctor or the medication or the pump you're going to need.
You've been alone for five months and it got you here.
" He gestures at me—at my wet shirt, my red eyes, the evidence of how badly I've been handling things. "You're not staying."
I run through the arguments. Try to find one that holds weight.
He's a stranger. But he just put his mouth on me and eased pain I couldn't ease myself, so maybe we're past stranger territory.
I can't accept this much help. But I also can't afford medication or a doctor or rent, and pride doesn't pay bills.
Mom raised me to be independent. But Mom also called HIM. Which means even my fiercely independent mother thought I needed help.
The arguments crumble. One by one. Until I'm standing in the middle of my apartment with nothing left except the truth I've been avoiding:
It feels good.
It feels good to have someone walk into my life and just decide things. To not be the one figuring it out. To let go of the wheel for five minutes and let someone else steer.
This is new. This is terrifying.
And the terrifying part isn't that he's taking over. It's that I WANT him to.
"Fine."
The word comes out flat. Defeated. He doesn't react like he won—just nods, once, and starts looking around the apartment like he's cataloging what needs to happen next.
I grab a duffel bag from under my bed. Start packing.
Not everything—just the essentials. Clothes, toiletries, laptop, charger.
The things I'd need for a few days. He watches, or maybe he doesn't. I can feel his presence behind me but I don't turn around.
Can't look at him right now because if I do, I'll remember what his mouth felt like and my brain will crash again.
"I'll send someone in the morning."
I glance back. "For what?"
"The rest of your stuff. And to deal with your landlord."
I can't help it. I smirk. My landlord is a nightmare—a bully who's been ignoring my maintenance requests for months and definitely won't return my security deposit. The idea of Jordan Scott's "someone" trying to negotiate with him is almost funny.
"Good luck with that."
He looks at me. The smirk finds his mouth too—small, confident, the expression of a man who's faced down worse opponents and won.
"You haven't met me, baby girl."
The endearment lands somewhere between my stomach and my chest. Warm. Unexpected. Nobody has ever called me that. Nobody has ever said it like that—casual and possessive and tender all at once, like I already belong to him and the belonging is a gift, not a cage.
I don't know what to do with the feeling.
So I tuck it away and zip the duffel.
"Ready?"
I nod.
He takes the bag before I can. I reach for it—instinct, pride, the same reflex that's been running my life for years—but he's already moving toward the door. He doesn't ask permission. Just carries my bag like it's his job now.
I follow him.
Out of the apartment. Down the hallway where the carpet is stained and the lights flicker. Down the stairs where the railing wobbles under my hand. Through the lobby that smells like mildew and old takeout.
His hand finds my back. Low, between my shoulder blades. Steering. Protective. The touch is warm through my shirt and I lean into it before I can stop myself.
My body makes the decision before my brain catches up—moves toward the steadiness, the heat, the presence of someone who's decided I'm his responsibility and isn't asking permission.
We step outside.
The night air is cool against my face. The streetlights cast orange pools on the pavement. And parked at the curb is a car that doesn't belong in this neighborhood—sleek, black, expensive. The kind of car that has a name I probably wouldn't recognize.
He opens the passenger door.
I get in.
The interior smells clean. Leather seats, soft under me. Nothing in this car has ever been broken. The contrast between his world and the one I just left is so stark it makes my chest tighten.
He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The sound is a low purr—smooth, controlled, nothing like the rattle of the buses I've been taking for the past five months.
We pull away from the curb.
I watch my apartment building recede in the side mirror. The cracked windows, the graffiti on the brick, the streetlight that's been out since I moved in. It gets smaller. Farther. Until it's just another building in a neighborhood I won't miss.
And I think: this is what it feels like to be taken care of.
Not because someone has to. Because someone chose to.
I sit in the passenger seat and let Jordan drive, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm not the one holding the map.