Page 62 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

Jackson still isn’t home.

I try not to glance at the clock again, but my eyes drift anyway: 5:47 p.m.

His text from this morning echoes in my head. Short, polite, vague.

I haven’t heard from him since. I keep telling myself not to read into it. Maybe he just wanted space. Maybe skating solo before practice helped him clear his head.

But the silence feels louder than it should.

Miss Taylor appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Dinner’s ready in five,” she says, her tone light. “Garlic bread’s already on the table if anyone’s starving.”

“Thank you,” I manage, a little quieter than usual.

She holds my gaze a beat longer than normal, but she doesn’t press. Then she disappears back into the kitchen.

I glance around the room, half-expecting to see Jackson appear in the doorway like he usually does after practice, dark hair still damp from a shower and grinning, a water bottle in hand. Instead, I catch sight of his hoodie draped over the back of the armchair, and his empty coffee mug on the table.

He’s not here, but he’s everywhere.

Miss Taylor hums softly as she plates dinner, the gentle clink of silverware punctuating the quiet. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong, but I see the glance she sends my way.

I haven’t moved much since coming downstairs.

Didn’t eat lunch. Barely touched the toast she left out for breakfast. My stomach twists at the thought of dinner, even though the food smells amazing. I tell myself I’m just not hungry. That I’ll eat later.

But the truth is, I haven’t felt quite right since I woke up alone in his bed.

What did last night mean to him?

The question rises uninvited and lodges just beneath my ribs.

What did it mean to me?

“Dinner’s ready,” Miss Taylor calls out gently from the kitchen.

The twins leap to their feet, Noah grabbing Liam’s wrist as they race past me toward the kitchen. I push myself up, smoothing my sweater like that can somehow steady me.

I’m half listening as Noah animatedly recounts how the class hamster escaped, when the front door swings open.

I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. The shuffle of shoes, the thunk of a hockey bag hitting the floor.

“Daddy’s home!” Liam calls.

Noah bolts from the table, socks sliding on the hardwood. “Did you win practice?”

Miss Taylor chuckles.

Then his voice, low, familiar, tired. “Hey, bud.”

He appears in the kitchen doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold and hair damp. His hoodie clings to his frame in a way that makes my heart clench.

Our eyes meet, and my stomach flips.

He hesitates, just a flicker, and then steps in, his eyes avoiding mine like it’s the easiest thing to do. But I can’t ignore the heaviness in the air. Everything feels different now.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“There’s still lasagna,” Miss Taylor says. “And a few slices of garlic bread, although it took some convincing to get Noah to save you any.”