Page 50 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

Jackson moves across the kitchen and grabs something from the fridge. I keep my eyes on the steam curling off the coffee. Anything but his hands. Anything but the way that shirt clings to his back.

Focus.

“So,” he says casually. “You sleep okay?”

The question lands with more weight than it should. I almost choke on my coffee.

“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “Fine. Great. Just… you know. Long week.”

His eyes flick toward me, but he doesn’t press. Just nods and starts slicing a bagel.

“Miss Taylor’s taking the boys to school in a few,” he says, glancing toward the clock.

I nod again, grateful he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Because I wouldn’t know how to answer.

Miss Taylor appears in the kitchen like clockwork, dressed in a soft sweater and flats. There’s a flurry of movement as theboys scramble to get their jackets on, backpacks slung over one shoulder.

Jackson calls out, “Whoever behaves best today gets dibs on dessert tonight.”

Noah doesn’t miss a beat. “I pick lava cake!”

Liam crosses his arms. “That’s not how dibs work.”

Miss Taylor sighs, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she shepherds them out the door. The moment it closes behind them, the house falls quiet again.

Jackson crosses back to the table, sets down a plate with two bagels. One plain, one blueberry.

“I didn’t know which you’d want,” he says. “So I figured you could pick.”

My throat catches again, but I manage a smile. “Thanks. Blueberry.”

He slides the plate closer without sitting down. He’s got that easy posture he gets when he’s home, shoulders relaxed, one hip against the counter.

“I was thinking,” he says, “we could get out of the house today if you’d like. Maybe go for a drive.”

I blink. “You don’t have practice today?”

He shakes his head. “Day off. Coach gave us one after the win. Practice tomorrow, then prep.”

“Right. Because you’re in the playoffs now.”

“Because we’re in the playoffs,” he echoes, voice low with satisfaction.

I tear off a piece of the bagel and pop it into my mouth, chewing slowly while Jackson rinses something in the sink. The quiet stretches between us. It’s comfortable, but edged with something I can’t name. Not tension, exactly. But not nothing.

Once I finish breakfast, he glances over. “You up for that drive?”

There’s no pressure in his voice, just a simple offer. But something about it lands deeper than it should.

“Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just let me get ready real quick.”

He nods once. “I’ll warm up the truck.”

I rush to pull on my coat and boots, my hands clumsy with something that feels too close to excitement.

By the time I slide into the passenger seat, the cab is already warm. Jackson’s truck rumbles beneath us as we wind through back roads.

I glance over at him, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. There’s a comfort in the silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.