Chapter 163
Diana's POV
"Okay, that's it." Jack was there in an instant, one hand supporting my lower back, the other carefully guiding my head as he helped me settle into the seat. "Slowly. I've got you."
His face was inches from mine. I could see the concern in his eyes, the fine lines at their corners, the shadow of stubble on his jaw. My heart was doing things that had nothing to do with pain.
"Sorry," I managed. "I thought I could—"
"Stop apologizing." He reached across to buckle my seatbelt, and I caught the scent of his cologne—something clean and understated. "There's no prize for doing this alone, Diana."
He closed the door gently and walked around to the driver's side. I leaned my head back against the seat, trying to slow my racing pulse. This was ridiculous. I was acting like a teenager with a crush.
Except it didn't feel ridiculous. It felt terrifying and exhilarating and completely outside my control.
Jack started the car and pulled out of the garage. For a few minutes, we drove in silence. Then I heard myself ask, "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This." I gestured vaguely. "Taking care of me. You barely know me."
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes on the road. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. "I know you well enough."
"That's not an answer."
"No, it's not." He glanced at me briefly before returning his attention to the traffic. "The truth is... I don't know how to explain it without sounding like an idiot."
"Try me."
He exhaled slowly. "From the moment I first saw you, you were—" He paused, searching for words. "You were real. No pretense, no games. You said what you thought, fought for what you believed in, even when it cost you. And when you went after Claire for what she did to me, even though I'd hurt you, you didn't do it for revenge. You did it because it was right."
My throat tightened. "Jack—"
"I'm not finished." His hands tightened on the wheel. "When you got hurt protecting Lena, I realized something. I realized that I'd spent so much time keeping people at arm's length that I'd forgotten what it felt like to actually care about someone. To want to take care of them, not out of obligation, but because the thought of them in pain makes you feel like you can't breathe."
He pulled up to a red light and finally looked at me fully. "So that's why I'm doing this, Diana. Because I want to. Because you matter to me. And before you say it's just guilt or gratitude or whatever excuse you're planning to use to push me away—it's not. This is me, choosing to be here. Choosing you."
The light turned green. He drove on, leaving me speechless.
I stared out the window, watching the city blur past. My mother's warnings felt distant now, drowned out by the steady certainty in Jack's voice. Choosing you.
No one had ever said that to me before. Not like that.
"I'm not good at this," I said finally. "Letting people in. Trusting them."
"I know."
"I'll probably push you away. It's what I do."
"I know that too." He turned onto my street. "I'm not going anywhere, Diana. Even if you try to make me."
We pulled up in front of my building. Jack parked and came around to help me out, his movements practiced now, gentle and sure. In the elevator, I leaned against the wall, exhausted from the short trip. Jack stood close enough that I could feel his warmth but not so close that I felt trapped.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "For everything."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I do, though." I met his eyes. "You didn't have to do any of this."
"Yes, I did." His voice was soft. "Because you would've done the same for me. Actually, you already did—when you went after Claire, even though I didn't deserve it."
The elevator dinged. My floor.
At my door, my hands shook as I tried to get my keys out. They slipped from my fingers and clattered to the ground.
Jack bent to retrieve them, unlocking the door with easy efficiency. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
Inside, he guided me to the couch, disappearing into the kitchen before I could protest. I heard him filling a glass with water, the rattle of pill bottles. When he returned, he knelt in front of me, holding out the medication and water with the same careful attention he'd shown all week.
"Take these. Doctor said every six hours for the pain."
I swallowed the pills, watching him over the rim of the glass. He was so close I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
"I should let you rest." He stood, but he didn't move toward the door. "I'll come by tomorrow. Check on you."
"You don't have to do that. Don't you have work?"
A smile tugged at his mouth. "Mr. Reynolds specifically told me to take care of you this month, so technically, I am working right now."
Before I could process that, he was heading for the door. At the threshold, he paused and looked back.
"Get some sleep, Diana. And if you need anything—anything at all—call me. I mean it."
Then he was gone.
I sat on the couch, staring at the closed door, my apartment suddenly feeling too quiet, too empty. The pills were starting to work, making me drowsy, but my mind wouldn't stop replaying Jack's words.
I'm not going anywhere.
I closed my eyes, but I could still see him—the concern in his face, the steadiness in his hands, the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious.
My mother had warned me about men like this. Men who seemed too good to be true.
But what if Jack was different? What if he meant every word?
What if I let myself believe him?
I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes again, the light had shifted. Early afternoon sun slanted through the windows. My phone buzzed on the coffee table—a text from Lena.
Just finished at the courthouse. Coming by in an hour with soup. Don't argue.
I smiled despite myself. Then another text, this one from Jack.
Call if you need anything. I meant it.
I stared at those words for a long time. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I typed back:
Thank you. For today. For everything.
His response came quickly.
Anytime. Rest well, Diana.
I set the phone down and leaned back against the cushions, my ribs protesting but my heart feeling oddly light. Maybe my mother had been wrong. Maybe not every act of kindness came with strings attached.
Maybe Jack Harrison was exactly what he seemed: a good man who cared about me.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like the first deep breath I'd taken in years.
Some wall I'd built around myself had developed a crack, and Jack had slipped through without me noticing.
I wasn't sure what came next. Wasn't sure I was ready for it.
But for the first time in a long time, I thought I might want to find out.