Chapter 67
Chapter 67
Chapter 67: “A Place That Feels Like Home”
POV: Jackson
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The streets were unusually calm, as if the whole world had paused. I think I was, too. Elizabeth sat next to me in the car, leaning her head against the window. Since we left the house, she hadn't said much, and I didn't want to interfere. I just kept driving, one hand firmly on the wheel while the other rested close by in case she needed it.
“I’m not taking you far,” I said softly. “Just somewhere I think you should see.”
She didn’t glance my way but nodded slightly in response. That was enough for me.
We arrived at the old building around noon. Downtown wasn't exactly the picture of glamour, but this street had its own unique charm, flower boxes, faded murals, and quirky little shops that still handwrote their hours on the doors.
I parked in front of a red brick building with tall windows and a slightly crooked railing. Elizabeth gazed up at it, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.
“What is this place?” she asked.
I hopped out of the car and made my way around to open her door. “Come check it out.”
Inside, the space opened up before us. There were exposed beams, high ceilings, and wooden floors that creaked when we walked too briskly. The windows were oversized, flooding the room with light as if it were eager to fill the space.
“It’s not much,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “But I thought maybe it could be something, something for you. For both of us.”
Elizabeth stepped inside slowly, the sound of her boots soft on the floor. She took her time, drifting toward the windows and running her fingers along the old brick wall, as if it held answers to unasked questions.
I didn’t follow right away; I wanted to give her room, her space, if she needed it.
Standing by the door, I pulled out the keys from my pocket. “You don’t need to make any decisions right now. No pressure at all. I just wanted you to see there are options, something not connected to headlines or our parents or any of that.”
She turned to look at me, her expression unreadable but not cold. “You got this for me?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ve noticed you’ve started painting again. I thought it could be a studio for you, or a place to escape. Maybe even a home, if that’s what you wanted.”
Elizabeth looked around again, more slowly this time. I could see her mulling things over, her hand resting on her belly in a way that tightened my throat.
I walked over and held out the keys. “Just give it some thought.”
She took them without saying a word.
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Later that afternoon, I found myself pacing the kitchen, opening cabinets without any real need. Every noise felt amplified, the buzzing fridge, the ticking clock, even the dog barking next door. Everything was too intense. I kept checking my phone, but there were no new messages.
It was nearly five when her text finally arrived—just three simple words.
“I went back.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to overwhelm her. But as soon as I read it, a weight lifted from my chest.
Elizabeth
When I walked into the loft again, this time by myself, the atmosphere was still and peaceful. Jackson wasn’t by my side; it was just me and the gentle murmur of traffic drifting in from the street below. I let the door click shut behind me and took a moment to absorb the emptiness around me.
The air carried a scent of dust and aged wood.
I moved slowly across the room, stopping in front of the window. The sun had shifted since I’d last been here. Now, a warm golden light stretched across the floor, creating a cozy glow in the air.
I rested my hand on my belly. The baby stirred lightly, a delicate flutter that was perfectly reassuring. I couldn’t help but smile.
This place felt transformed. It wasn’t filled with noise or polished trinkets, nor was it cluttered with memories I’d rather forget. Instead, it felt like a blank canvas, spacious and open, a canvas I could create anew rather than one that needed fixing.
I sat on the windowsill, leaning back to let my head rest against the cool glass. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it.
For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could truly breathe.
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Jackson
The next morning, I arrived with a cup of coffee and a box of pastries. I wasn’t sure if she’d be there, but I needed to try.
I knocked gently before using the spare key I’d had made, just in case.
And she was there. Sitting barefoot on the floor, paintbrush in hand, focused on a blank canvas.
“You came back,” I greeted her.
She glanced up at me, then at the coffee. “You brought cinnamon rolls?”
I offered the box to her. “Your favorite.”
She opened the lid, a look of surprise on her face. “You remembered.”
I shrugged, trying to suppress a smile. “Of course I did.”
Wanting to respect her creative space, I stayed quiet. I pulled a stool up against the wall and simply observed her.
She didn’t ask me to leave.
In fact, she barely spoke at all.
But when she finally dipped her brush into a soft shade of blue and made that first stroke, I felt an unspoken understanding. This space, this moment, was something special.
And she was allowing me to be a part of it.