Chapter 76: Madeline
I slow down once I’m off their street, my pulse finally settling into something that doesn’t sound like panic.
The folder of thoughts in my head is louder than my footsteps.
God, I’m such an idiot.
Such a dumb girl.
Charlie is probably the kindest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I love her, in that warm, easy way that happens when someone makes you feel at home in a place that isn’t yours. She’s been nothing but good to me.
And yet there I was, practically melting under the gaze of her boyfriend.
I groan under my breath.
This is wrong. For so many reasons. For Charlie. For work. For my dignity.
And now I can definitely confirm that the looks Reid gave me were not lust or affection or anything close to that. They were just annoyance. Disapproval. Maybe pity.
Perfect.
I kick at a loose rock on the pavement, watching it bounce into a ditch.
Good. That’s about how my self-respect feels right now.
“Madeline!”
The sound makes me freeze. I don’t even need to turn around to know who it is—I know their voices now, every inflection, every tone. Reid’s is sharper, heavier.
This one’s softer. Controlled.
Jake.
When I turn, the light catches the flecks of hazel in his eyes, confirming it. He’s walking fast toward me, my jacket folded neatly over one arm and a folder in his hand.
He stops a few feet away, arm extended. “You forgot these.”
I blink, heat creeping up my neck. “Oh—thank you. You didn’t have to. I could’ve gotten them tomorrow.”
He studies me for a second, that unreadable look he always has. “It’s what you came to the house for,” he says simply. “I wasn’t gonna let you leave without it.”
That somehow makes my chest tighten. I force a small smile. “Thank you.”
His gaze softens, just barely. “Why didn’t you want Charlie to drive you?”
I fumble for an answer. “I just… figured you guys had stuff to do. Or talk about.” My voice trails off, the excuse flimsy even to my own ears.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, but in thought. Like he’s trying to piece something together, some invisible thread between the words I’m not saying.
The silence stretches too long, so I start to ramble. “Anyway, thanks for the papers. And the arm. And the jacket. And for—um—patching me up. Again. You’ve really done more than enough, so I should—”
I take a small step back, clutching the folder, but his voice cuts through, calm and low.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
I have to actually think about it for a second.
“When I ate last?” I repeat, like I need to make sure I heard him right. “Um… I think last night?”
Jake’s brows pull together immediately, the faint crease between them deepening. His whole expression shifts from curious to serious in a heartbeat. He looks down at his watch.
“It’s one p.m.”
I nod, sheepish. “Yeah, I figured it was getting late.”
He exhales through his nose—somewhere between a sigh and quiet disapproval. Then, calmly but firmly, he says, “You should go eat. Come with me.”
My brain short-circuits. “At… the SWMRI house?”
He blinks, startled. “What? No.” His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “At the diner.”
“Oh.” My face heats instantly. “Right. The diner.”
He studies me for a beat, like he’s not quite convinced I won’t faint if left unattended. I rush to fill the silence.
“You don’t have to—really. I’m sure you have a lot to do, and I can eat something at home. I’ll grab a snack or—”
He takes one step closer, not threatening, just steady. The kind of step that makes it impossible to look anywhere but at him.
“Let me rephrase that,” he says quietly, eyes on mine. “Let’s go eat something at the diner.”
There’s no room for argument in his tone. But somehow, I know that if I really said no, if I told him I didn’t want to, he’d just nod and walk away.
That’s the thing about Jake—he doesn’t push. He just… asks in a way that makes you want to say yes.
So I nod.
He reaches out, takes the folder gently from my hands while I slip my jacket back on, and without another word, he turns toward the main street.
I fall into step behind him, the soft sound of his boots on the pavement leading the way toward the diner—and the strange, steady feeling that I don’t quite mind following him there.
When we get to the diner, the bell over the door jingles and the smell of coffee and frying oil hits me all at once. It’s busier than usual—people chatting, forks clinking against plates—but somehow every head seems to turn when Jake walks in.
Especially the waitress.
She lights up the second she spots him, practically tripping over herself as she hurries toward us, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in this practiced, flirty way.
“Jake!” she says, way too enthusiastically. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
He gives her a polite nod, the kind that’s more acknowledgment than invitation, and keeps walking toward a booth near the back. “Hey, Lucy,” he says evenly. “Can we get this one?”
“Of course,” she says, all smiles, following us like she’s on a mission.
I slide into the booth across from him, feeling wildly out of place. The table’s sticky, the vinyl squeaks, and somehow he looks like he doesn’t belong here at all. Like a Greek god dropped in the middle of a random seaside diner.
Lucy’s still smiling at him when she takes our order. I go for something sweet—pancakes with syrup and berries, because I need comfort food—and Jake asks for eggs, bacon, and black coffee. Salty, straightforward, like him.
She laughs at something he says—though I’m pretty sure he didn’t actually make a joke—and walks away, glancing over her shoulder twice before she disappears behind the counter.
I catch myself smiling into my water.
Jake doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s leaning back against the booth, relaxed, one arm draped along the top of the seat, looking entirely unbothered. Polite, but not interested.
And honestly? I can’t even blame the waitress.
If I didn’t know better—if I didn’t already have a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t—I'd probably be swooning, too.