Page 24 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

The following day, the dryer buzzes behind me, a low, persistent reminder that even when your life implodes, socks still need folding.

There’s a whole basket beside me of clean clothes, and my hands move on autopilot, folding without thinking. My mind’s somewhere else entirely.

I keep seeing Brad’s face.

Hearing his voice.

It was the way he said “Ava, please,” like I was the one who’d wronged him.

Like it wasn’tinsanethat he tracked me. That he’d shown up uninvited, like a scene out of a thriller movie.

I press the palms of my hands over my eyes, feeling like I’m stuck somewhere in the middle: no longer his, but not quite free. Just floating in this in-between space, waiting to land.

And then there’s Jackson.

He has been kind. Protective. He stepped between me and Brad without hesitation. Took that tracking app off my phone. Gave me space, safety, and a place to regroup.

In an instant, I’m eight years old again, hiding behind Jackson as he glares down at a kid twice my size who yanked my braid and called me a crybaby.

“No one messes with her,” he’d said back then, voice full of certainty.

Turns out, he never stopped being that guy.

And then he offered his fake dating plan.

A wry smile tugs at my lips. Only Jackson could offer something like that and make it sound practical. Like it was just a solution to a problem.

But what keeps circling in my mind isn’t the logistics. It’s the fact that I didn’t immediately say no.

Because part of me wants to say yes.

Somewhere between crashing into him at the wedding and now…

I started feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe. Seen.

And I’m not exactly sure what that means.

The dryer buzzes again, louder this time, and I flinch like I’ve been caught. I stand and walk over to it, tugging open the door. Warm air rushes out. I lean into it, eyes stinging. Maybe from the heat. Maybe not.

I gather the clothes and start sorting them into piles, grounding myself in fabric and motion.

I’m just finishing the last folded shirt when I hear the front door open.

There’s the unmistakable patter of sneakers, the muffled thud of bags dropped too hard, and Jackson’s voice, calm but firm, corralling all that energy before it can break loose.

“Noah, shoes stay on the mat. Liam, backpack in the cubby.”

“Yes, Daddy,” comes the twin chorus, followed by the clatter of compliance and half-hearted grumbling.

I smile before I even realize I’m doing it.

I carry the folded clothes down the hall and peek into the front room. The boys are tugging off jackets and handing them to Jackson, who catches each one like a practiced pro. He looks up when he sees me, his hair slightly windblown, keys still in hand.

“Hey,” he says. “Laundry day?”

I nod, lifting the basket in my arms. “Turns out neatly folded clothes are good for the soul. You were able to pick up the boys today?”