Chapter Sixty

Brooklyn

The sun wasn’t even up when I woke, but Jackson was still asleep beside me. His breathing was steady, his arm heavy over the blanket, his face softer than it ever looked awake. I watched him for a minute, brushing my thumb over the back of his hand. I could feel the small swell of my belly pressing against the mattress, and it grounded me, reminded me that we weren’t just the two of us anymore. We hadn’t been for months.
I leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even a thought before I did it, more like a pull in my chest and the sudden need to feel close to him. The kiss was soft at first, barely enough to wake him, but his eyes blinked open and he pulled in a breath just as I kissed him again, slower and deeper.
He made a small sound in his throat, something surprised and grateful, and his hand slid to my waist like he needed to hold me there. Heat wrapped around both of us, a flicker of something we hadn’t touched in months, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
He broke the kiss just enough to whisper against my lips. “Baby. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I whispered back. “I’m good. I’m really good.”
He kissed me before I even finished speaking. It wasn’t rough or fast, just warm and wanting, and it made my heart ache in the best way. We stayed like that until the need to breathe split the moment apart.
He brushed his knuckles over my cheek. “You’re glowing.”
“Stop,” I muttered, smiling into the pillow. “I’m literally still half asleep.”
“You’re glowing anyway.”
He was smiling too, the shy kind he only gave me. The kind I almost forgot how much I loved.
We showered together, slow and quiet. His hands were gentle as he washed my hair, careful around the curve of my stomach. My fingers traced the long lines of his back, rediscovering the muscles I used to know by heart. The heat of the water mixed with the warmth between us, and for the first time in months, there was no heaviness, no ache, no distance.
Just us.
After, I made breakfast. Nothing fancy, but it felt like something important. Like a promise I didn’t know how to say out loud yet. He came up behind me while I cooked, slid his arms around my waist, and rested his chin on my shoulder.
“That smells amazing,” he murmured.
“I didn’t burn anything,” I said. “So that’s a win.”
He laughed quietly. “It’s a big win.”
We ate together at the table. No tension. No silence filled with things we weren’t saying. Just easy, quiet, little smiles we kept catching from each other, and the soft warmth of knowing we were finally moving in the same direction again.
When he stood to leave for work, I followed him to the door, my heart kicking harder with every step. He grabbed his keys, looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for me or keep the routine he’d gotten used to.
I stepped up on my toes and kissed him.
“I love you,” I said.
The way his shoulders dropped, the way relief washed over his face, the way his eyes softened, it made my chest hurt.
“I love you too, Baby.”
When he walked out the door, I didn’t feel empty. I felt full. Full of something warm and steady and new. I pressed a hand over my stomach.
“Okay,” I whispered. “We’re doing this.”
I walked through the house, and it felt different. Or maybe I felt different in it. Lighter. More awake. I cleaned a little, made the bed, and folded clothes that had been sitting on the chair for too long. I opened windows, let the cold air in, and let myself breathe with it.
Around noon, I texted him.

Me: Hi. Thinking about you.

He responded in less than a minute.

Jackson: Everything okay?
Me: Yeah. More than okay. Miss you.

Three dots blinked.
Stopped.
Started again.
Stopped.
Then finally…

Jackson: Miss you too, Baby.

I smiled at my phone like a teenager and set it on the table.
In the afternoon, I went out on the porch and sat for a while, one hand on my belly, watching the empty road. I thought about the way Jackson looked that morning, the way he’d touched me like he was scared the moment would disappear. I thought about how much he’d carried. How much he’d held up even when I’d pushed him away.
And for once, instead of guilt, I felt determination.
We were rebuilding.
Piece by piece.
Touch by touch.
Day by day.
And I wanted to keep going.
He came home around dinner time, earlier than usual. When he stepped through the door, he hesitated like he wasn’t sure what he was walking into. I went to him immediately, wrapped my arms around him, and pressed my forehead to his chest.
He froze for a second, then his arms came around me and he held on. Hard. His whole body trembled like he’d been holding himself together all day and finally let go.
We stayed like that until he let out a long, shaky breath and pulled back. His eyes were red. Mine were too.
“Missed you,” I whispered.
His voice cracked. “Missed you more.”
We didn’t talk much that night. We made dinner together. Ate together. Watched something stupid and comforting on TV. His fingers brushed mine a few times, soft and easy, and each time my heart kicked harder.
It felt like the beginning of something new. Something better.
We found a rhythm again.
I woke up early and made sure he had coffee before work.
He kissed me goodbye every morning.
I let myself kiss him back without fear.
I moved more. Ate more. Smiled more. I felt more like myself every day, and I could see the way it changed him, too. The dark circles eased. His shoulders weren’t so tense. Sometimes I caught him watching me with this quiet awe, like he was seeing something he didn’t think he’d ever get back.
In the afternoons, I’d sit with my notebook open, planning.
A real date.
Not because we needed to fix anything.
But because we deserved to celebrate how far we’d come.
I wrote out ideas.
Dinner out.
A small concert in town.
A quiet night in with candles and music and the kind of slow intimacy we hadn’t had in forever.
By the third day, I knew exactly what I wanted.
I smiled down at my list, my fingers brushing over the page.
Tomorrow, I’d ask him.
Tomorrow, we’ll take the next step.
Together.

By Friday, I’m already barely holding it together. I don’t have a job to blame stress on anymore, but somehow being home all day makes my brain louder, not quieter. And being four months pregnant apparently means crying at least once a day for absolutely no reason.
But tonight, I want tonight to be good.
Just me, Jackson, and something normal.
So I plan a whole dinner date. I make a reservation, shave my legs even though it feels like a workout, put on a dress that fits if I don’t breathe too deep, and start curling my hair like I'm prepping for a magazine shoot. I redo my makeup twice because the first try makes me look like I took a nap in a sewer.
And then everything crashes.
The restaurant had to close because of a gas leak, and the backup place has a one-hour wait. I spill water all over my dress, trying to “be careful.” Then I drop my mascara wand and stab myself directly in the eye like I’m training for professional clown school.
That’s it for me.
I sit down on the bathroom floor and just lose it.
Like… ugly crying. Hands over my face. The whole deal.
I don’t even hear Jackson come in until he’s suddenly kneeling beside me, his boots in my peripheral vision.
“Baby,” he says so softly it makes my throat tighten. “What’s goin’ on?”
I shake my head because if I try to talk, it’ll come out as a dying goose noise.
He doesn’t push. He just sits down next to me on the tile and pulls me into his chest, mascara, tears, ruined dress, and all.
I cling to him like gravity stops working.
“I wanted tonight to be nice,” I choke out eventually. “Just one normal date. One.”
“This is normal,” he murmurs, brushing hair out of my face. “People cry on bathroom floors all the time. Happens constantly at my parents’ house.”
A watery laugh escapes before I can stop it.
I swear he could talk someone off a cliff with that dumb, comforting voice.
He stands and helps me up, his big hands warm around mine.
“C’mon. I got us. Let me fix this.”
“I’m a disaster,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing my forehead, “but you’re my disaster.”
I roll my eyes at him, but it works. My chest loosens.
Then he starts… doing stuff.
Cleaning up the living room. Moving blankets. Kicking laundry into a corner. He dims the lights. Lights every candle he can find. Puts on the playlist we always listen to in his truck when he drives too fast with the windows down.
By the time I follow him to the kitchen, there’s a whole dinner set up.
Chicken. Pasta. Garlic bread.
A little crooked, but warm and cozy and perfect.
“You cooked?” I ask, sniffling.
“Nope,” he replies instantly. “Ashlynn dropped it off yesterday. I’m just reheating things and pretending I’m useful.”
I laugh, really laugh, and he grins like he just won the Super Bowl.
We sit on the living room floor and eat off our laps, my knees against his. He keeps one hand resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing absent circles that make me feel safe in a way I can’t even explain.
After dinner, he pulls me between his legs on the rug, his hands sliding up my sides, gentle, warm, certain.
“You don’t have to make things perfect,” he whispers against my temple. “We’re already good.”
I swallow hard. “I just don’t want you to stop wanting me.”
His fingers tip my chin up immediately.
“I want you even more now,” he says, voice low and so sincere it almost hurts.
That does me in.
I kiss him first, gentle, grateful, and he kisses me back like he’s been waiting all week for me to let go. He lays me back on the rug, careful and slow, every touch grounding and sweet and so full of emotion I can barely breathe.
It’s not rushed.
It’s not about distraction.
It’s deep and intimate and connected in a way that makes my heart ache in the best way.
Afterward, he pulls me into his chest, his hand tracing slow circles over my stomach. He kisses my forehead, my hair, my cheek, soft, lingering touches like he’s trying to memorize me.
“We’re okay,” he whispers. “You, me, the baby… we’re okay.”
And lying there in the dim candlelight with him holding me like I’m the whole world,
I finally believe him.