Chapter 4

Jackson pulled into his driveway, shutting off the engine with a soft click. I stared at the old Victorian home, freshly painted in soft blue and white, with the wide porch wrapped around like open arms. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

I sat frozen, unsure if my legs would even carry me.

Jackson noticed. Instead of rushing me, he got out of the car, walked around, and opened my door like it was the most natural thing in the world. I felt his hand hover near mine—not grabbing, not forcing. Just offering.

I took it. My fingers trembled against Jackson.

Inside, the house smelled like wood polish and warm vanilla, the floors creaking gently underfoot. The sunlight lit up the stained glass windows, making them glow brightly. It should have been comforting and safe. Instead, my chest tightened until it was hard to breathe.

"You’re okay, Liv," Jackson said quietly as if sensing the rising panic inside me. "Come on, let’s get you settled."

He led me past a formal living room with a fireplace insert flickering softly, a cozy dining room, and a study with dark wood shelves lined with books. My mind barely registered them. I was too focused on keeping it together.

The guest room was at the end of the hall. It was simple—soft yellow walls, a queen-sized bed with a fluffy comforter, and a little window overlooking the backyard. A folded blanket sat at the foot of the bed, and a fresh towel had been draped neatly over the desk chair.

"You’re welcome to do anything you need," Jackson said. "Bathroom’s right across the hall. House alarm’s set at night, but I’ll show you how it works, just in case."

I nodded mutely.

No yelling.

No accusations.

No fists.

It felt wrong.

Jackson hesitated in the doorway. "I’ll let you get cleaned up. Tea or coffee?"

My throat tightened painfully. "Tea…please."

He smiled, the kind that reached his eyes and warmed the room a little before disappearing down the hall.

I closed the door and locked it, the click loud in the quiet house. Leaning against it, I slid down until I sat on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest.

This wasn’t normal.

Kindness wasn’t normal.

Not for me.

The memory hit hard and fast—Daniel grabbing my wrist when I forgot his coffee and slamming my mug to the floor in a shower of ceramic shards. "Can’t you do anything right, Olivia?" he'd sneered.

I buried my face in my hands.

I wasn’t there anymore. I reminded myself. This wasn’t Daniel’s apartment. This wasn’t a foster home where a missed chore got you sent to bed without dinner.

But the old instincts were hard to kill.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Liv?" Jackson’s voice was gentle. "Tea’s ready. No rush."

I stood shakily, wiped my face, and opened the door.

Jackson handed me a steaming mug and a small bowl of sugar packets, keeping a careful distance. I noticed the tissue box tucked under his arm and nearly lost it again.

"Just in case," he said, placing it on the dresser without comment.

I managed to whisper, "Thank you."

"Anytime, honey," he said, like he meant it.

When I joined him in the kitchen, it was warm and bright. Jackson moved easily around it, barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, pulling grilled cheese sandwiches off a skillet with the ease of someone used to cooking for himself.

"You okay with tomato soup?" he asked.

"It’s perfect," I said, and I meant it.

We sat at the kitchen island. He filled the silence with easy conversation, telling me about restoring the house and complaining about how long it took to find a contractor who didn’t cut corners.

I listened, letting his voice wash over me like a balm.

He talked about his job, too, but not in a bragging way.

He sometimes consulted with local police departments and the FBI, identifying skeletal remains.

How he’d met Dom on a cold case involving cyber evidence—a hacker helping catch a serial killer.

I found myself asking questions before I even realized it, genuinely curious. Jackson answered everyone patiently, smiling when I got excited about the science behind bone dating or forensic reconstruction.

No judgment.

No mocking.

No, "You wouldn't understand, Olivia."

The realization hit like a crack in ice—I was so used to being dismissed that I didn’t even recognize real conversation anymore.

After dinner, Jackson showed me how to work the house alarm and demonstrated how the doors and windows were reinforced. He then handed me the extra key without hesitation.

"You don’t have to stay locked up," he said, "but it’s there if it makes you feel safer."

"It does," I whispered.

He smiled again, patient, steady, and said goodnight, disappearing down the hall to his room.

I lay awake in the guest bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me.

The sheets smelled like lavender and laundry soap.

The mattress was soft.

No footsteps were pacing outside my door, nor was there muffled anger through the walls.

No waiting for the creak of the floorboards that meant Daniel was coming.

It was too quiet.

Too safe.

I didn’t know how to exist in this kind of space.

Still, as I curled onto my side and pulled the blanket tighter around me, some tiny, stubborn part of me whispered:

Maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Maybe, just maybe, I could believe it.