Page 36 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I glance at Brad. “Where’s my luggage? The big gray one I packed for the honeymoon.”

He hesitates. “Maybe it got mixed up when Jenna came by. Or… maybe it’s in the closet somewhere.”

My spine goes rigid. He’s lying. I can feel it.

But I don’t take the bait. Instead, I nod once, more to myself than to him, and grit my teeth.

“I’m going up to get my grandma’s quilt,” I say, already turning toward the attic.

Jackson holds the ladder steady as I climb. The attic is dim and dusty, filled with boxes and forgotten furniture. But after a few moments, I spot it. The quilt is shoved on top of an old trunk, folded neatly inside a plastic bag.

Below me, I can hear their voices. Low and tense. Jackson’s calm voice. Brad’s clipped replies. A few beats of silence. Then more of it, quieter now. Still weighted.

I sling the quilt over my shoulder and climb down slowly, the ladder creaking beneath me. When my shoes hit the floor, I look up.

Brad’s face is flushed, his jaw set. Jackson, by contrast, stands tall and composed. He’s steady in that quiet, unwavering way that somehow says everything without him even speaking.

I don’t ask what happened. Just nod at Jackson and gesture toward the door.

“I’ve got everything.”

We move together without speaking. Jackson grabs the tote and tucks it under one arm. For a second, I almost believe we’ll get out clean.

But then Brad follows us to the door.

“I’m not giving up on us,” he murmurs.

I stop, hand on the knob. My stomach clenches with dread.

Of course, he thinks this isn’t over.

Of course, he believes I’m still his.

I know he’ll keep pushing. Unless I give him a reason to stop.

I turn slowly and meet his eyes. Before I can second-guess myself, I balance the quilt carefully on one arm and reach for Jackson’s hand.

It’s warm. Solid. No hesitation.

Brad’s eyes drop to our joined hands, and his mouth hardens into something bitter. I don’t look away. I don’t let go.

“I’ve moved on,” I say quietly. “You should too.”

Brad’s eye bulge out of his head, his veins popping on his neck. He grips the door so forcefully that I wouldn’t be surprised if he leaves nail marks.

Through it all, Jackson doesn’t miss a beat. He squeezes my hand once, then walks with me out the door like we’ve been together for years.

“This isn’t over.”

Laced with fury, Brad’s words land behind us like a stone. But I don’t stop. I don’t look back.

We don’t speak again until we reach my car. I unlock the trunk, my fingers shaking slightly, and Jackson helps me load everything in.

Immediately after, I take out my phone and block Brad before he has time to call or text me.

My hand doesn't even shake. It feels right, final.

“I’ll follow you back,” I say, glancing towards his truck.