Page 43 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

“He kept pushing,” I mutter. “I needed him to stop.”

“If he thinks he can manipulate the narrative and not get scorched, he’s clearly forgotten who your best friend is.”

A pause, then she groans. “Ugh. I have to jump on a nonprofit board call in two minutes. These people love to talk like they invented reading.”

I actually smile. Just a little.

“Text me if you need backup. Or a distraction. If there’s anything I can do, you know I’m here for you.”

“Thanks,” I murmur. “I’ll let you know.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I took time off to breathe. To get my footing. And now Brad is using that silence to reshape the story around me.

But he doesn’t get to write the ending.

Not this time.

I grab my phone again, fingers stiff, and head toward the back of the house. The faint thud of something echoes from the garage: rubber soles on concrete, a zipper dragging open. I follow the sound without thinking, pushing through the mudroom door and blink my eyes at the sunlight.

Jackson’s crouched beside his SteelClaws equipment bag, garage door halfway open, cool air moving in around him. His hoodie sleeves are shoved to his elbows, and he’s methodically checking straps, pads, and tape one piece at a time.

Focused. Calm. Like it’s just any other morning and not the one where my ex decided to rewrite history in front of hundreds of people.

He doesn’t look up at first, but when he does, his brows lift slightly. “Hey.”

I hold out my phone. “Greg called this morning. I didn’t know why until I saw this.”

He rises, takes the phone from me, and scans the post. His jaw clenches immediately.

“He’s trying to spin it,” I say. My voice sounds strained. “Like I went back. Like nothing happened.”

Jackson exhales, slow and controlled. “He doesn’t like that you walked away. So now he’s pretending you didn’t.”

I nod, throat constricted.

“This is what he does when things don’t go his way,” I say quietly. “He hijacks the story and dares you to contradict it.”

Jackson meets my eyes without flinching. “Then let’s rewrite it.”

My eyes meet his, and for a moment, the air between us stills with quiet certainty. The kind that makes you believe that even with everything falling apart, somehow you will make it through and be okay.

Jackson has always been like that. A steady presence. A grounding force. Back then, it was on the school steps or in the hallway after someone bullied me. Now it’s here, in his garage that smells faintly of tape and laundry detergent.

And somehow, just standing here with him, it’s easier to breathe.

His gaze doesn’t waver, and I realize I’ve straightened without meaning to. Shoulders squared. Chin up.

“Let’s make this look real,” he says. “Not just to him, but to everyone.”

I meet his eyes, and for a moment, the air between us stills. My pulse kicks up again, but this time it isn’t dread.

It’s resolve.

I tuck the phone into my pocket, straighten my shoulders.

He holds my gaze. His voice doesn’t waver.

“Ready to go public?”