Chapter 125
Ellie's POV
The morning light filtered through the living room curtains, casting warm patterns across the hardwood floor. I was curled up on the couch with my laptop, pretending to review project notes while actually watching Jackson help my dad organize the garage through the window. He moved with that careful precision he always had, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he bent to lift a box.
Our mate works hard, Thalia observed, her tone almost smug. Strong. Capable.
I rolled my eyes at her but couldn't suppress my smile. I felt Jackson's calm focus, though underneath it ran a current of something... heavier. Something he'd been carrying since this morning's phone call.
"Ellie, honey?" Mom appeared from the kitchen, already pulling on her coat. "Your father and I are heading into town to visit the Hendersons. His wife just got out of the hospital, and we should check on her."
I looked up, surprised. "Oh. Is she okay?"
"Hip surgery. She's recovering well, but you know how it is—she could use the company." Mom glanced at Dad, who was making his way back inside. "We'll probably be back around three. There's chicken and vegetables in the fridge if you two want to make lunch."
Dad appeared in the doorway, brushing dust off his hands. "The Netflix password is on a sticky note by the TV, in case you want to watch something." He said it so casually, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Remote's on the coffee table."
My face heated. They weren't even trying to be subtle.
"We'll be fine," I managed, watching as Dad pressed a kiss to Mom's temple, their movements synchronized after decades together. "Tell Mrs. Henderson I hope she feels better."
"We will, sweetheart." Mom kissed my forehead, then called out to Jackson, who'd just come through the door. "Jackson, there's plenty of food! Make yourself at home."
He smiled politely, inclining his head. "Thank you, Mrs. Green. I appreciate it."
Two hours later, we were on the couch with some romantic comedy playing on the screen. I'd picked it deliberately, something light and funny to fill the comfortable silence. Jackson's arm was around my shoulders, and I'd tucked myself against his side, my head fitting perfectly in the hollow beneath his collarbone.
His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear. Solid. Reassuring.
But he hadn't laughed once.
On screen, the main character tripped over a dog leash and face-planted into a wedding cake, and the studio audience roared. I felt my lips curve up, but Jackson just... sat there. His fingers traced absent patterns on my shoulder—circles that grew more irregular as the movie went on, like his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Then came the scene where the protagonist stood at a crossroads, literally and figuratively, trying to decide between two job offers that would take her to opposite coasts. The camera zoomed in on her face, all conflicted determination, and I felt Jackson's body go rigid against mine.
I turned my head slightly, studying his profile. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the screen but not really seeing it. The muscle in his cheek twitched once, twice.
"Hey," I said softly, not moving from my position. "You okay?"
"Fine." The word came too quickly. "Just watching."
But his hand had stilled on my shoulder, and the emotions flowing through the bond told a different story entirely.
I didn't push. Not yet. Instead, I reached up and laced my fingers through his, feeling him squeeze back almost desperately. And I waited, watching the movie characters make their choices while the man beside me seemed trapped in his own impossible decision.
When the credits finally rolled, I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. The sudden silence felt loud, broken only by the soft hum of the heater and the distant sound of wind against the windows.
I shifted to face him properly, pulling my legs up under me. The lamp in the corner cast warm light across his features, highlighting the shadows beneath his eyes that I hadn't noticed before.
"Jackson." I kept my voice gentle, my hand still in his. "You've been somewhere else. What's going on?"
He was quiet for so long I almost thought he wouldn't answer. His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand—slower now, more deliberate. Through the bond, I felt him gathering something, building up to words he didn't know how to say.
"I'm sorry," he finally murmured. "I'm not being very good company."
"That's not what I asked." I squeezed his hand. "Talk to me. Please."
Another long pause. Then, in a voice that sounded tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep: "Miles called this morning. Before you woke up."
My stomach tightened. "About what happened at the lake?"
"Partly." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, our hands still joined. "He... he thinks I should challenge the current Alpha. Take back my father's position." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He says if I become Alpha, I'll have the resources to protect you properly. To investigate whoever's threatening you."
I absorbed this, watching the way his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. "What did you tell him?"
"That I'd think about it." He turned his head to look at me, and God, his eyes were so lost. "But that's the problem, Ellie. I don't know if I want to be Alpha. I don't know if I want to lead a pack, deal with politics, become what my father was. Miles thinks it's my destiny, my responsibility, but I..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
I waited, sensing there was more beneath the surface. Something he was almost afraid to name.
"That's what Miles said," I ventured carefully. "But what do you want?"
The question seemed to hit him physically. He straightened, then slumped back, his free hand dragging through his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper.
"I don't know."
Three words. But they carried the weight of years.
"I honestly don't know, Ellie." He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw something raw and vulnerable in his expression. "I've never really known what I want. After my parents died, I just... I did what I thought they would have wanted. I kept my head down, stayed away from pack politics because my dad died trying to reform them. Before I met you, I just went through the motions every day like I was following a script someone else wrote."
His voice cracked slightly. "Sometimes things happen—good things, bad things, things that should make me feel something—and it's like I'm watching from behind glass. Like there's this barrier between me and my own emotions, and I can't quite reach through it."
I felt it—that hollow ache he'd been carrying, that disconnection from himself that went deeper than any physical wound.
"You're always so sure," he continued, almost wonderingly. "You know you want to dance. You know what you want to study. You knew you wanted..." He gestured vaguely between us. "Me. And I'm sitting here not even certain what I'm supposed to feel, let alone what I want."
My chest tightened. This beautiful, brilliant man who'd saved my life, who'd been so careful with my heart—he was lost inside his own.
I shifted closer, bringing both hands up to frame his face. His eyes met mine, startled.
"You're right," I said quietly. "I do know what I want. Dancing, my major, you—I've always been clear about those things."
I felt him tense, preparing for the but.
"But Jackson? That doesn't mean you have to know everything right now. It doesn't mean you're broken or wrong for feeling disconnected sometimes."
His expression flickered—surprise, hope, disbelief.
"You can put this question aside for now," I continued, my thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "The Alpha thing, the pack politics, all of it. You don't have to decide today, or tomorrow, or even next month. Maybe the answer will come in a moment you're not expecting. Maybe it'll be after you make some other choice that seems completely unrelated. But forcing it won't help."
"How can you be so sure?" His voice was rough, hands coming up to cover mine.