Chapter 50

Chapter 50
When I woke up, the house was too quiet—but not in the way that used to make my stomach twist.
It was the kind of quiet that came with clean sheets and sunlight stretching across the floor—the kind that invited you to move slowly. I stayed under the covers for a while, watching the patterns of light flicker along the wall. There was no rush, no alarm, just the steady, comforting hum of morning.
Jackson was already up. I could smell coffee, faint and warm, floating in from the kitchen. There was music playing too—something old and low, with a voice that sounded like honey poured over gravel.
I pulled on a sweatshirt and padded into the kitchen barefoot.
He glanced up when I walked in and smiled around the rim of his mug.
“Good,” he said. “You’re up.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Put on jeans and a sweater. You’re getting kidnapped for the day.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Nope,” he said, sliding a travel mug toward me. “Just trust me.”

The road curved through wooded hills and soft patches of fog, the kind that clung to tree trunks and blurred the edges of the sky. Jackson didn’t say where we were going. He just hummed to the radio and tapped the steering wheel with his fingers like the rhythm was something familiar.
It had been a long time since I let someone take me somewhere without knowing the destination. There were too many years of keeping exits in sight and planning my escape before I even arrived. But that morning, with my legs curled beneath me in the passenger seat and the smell of cinnamon in the air from the travel mug I hadn’t let go of, I didn’t feel afraid of the unknown.
I felt… open.
When we pulled into a quiet lakeside lot surrounded by tall pines and chilled mist, I let out a slow breath.
“You’ve been holding onto that for twenty minutes,” Jackson said, turning the engine off.
“I didn’t realize.”
He glanced at me. “You okay?”
I nodded. “I think I am.”

The lake was glassy and still, tucked into a small cove with a faded wooden dock and two weathered canoes tied at the end. The air smelled like wet leaves and cedar. There was no one else around. Just trees, water, and space.
Jackson rowed while I sat cross-legged in the middle of the canoe, watching the ripples widen behind us. The boat rocked gently under his rhythm, oars dipping and lifting, slicing cleanly through the reflection of the sky.
We didn’t speak for a long time.
I trailed my fingers in the water. Cold. Sharp. Real.
Jackson noticed and let the oars rest.
“You always do that,” he said. “Touch things like you’re not sure they’re there.”
“I spent a long time not believing anything good could stay,” I said quietly. “Now I like to prove it to myself.”
He reached forward and took my hand in both of his, wrapping it tightly between his palms.
“It’s staying,” he said. “I promise you that.”

We ate lunch on a blanket spread near the edge of the dock—two sandwiches slightly smashed from the cooler, apples, and a thermos of coffee that had gone lukewarm.
It was perfect.
I leaned back on my elbows, squinting at the sky while Jackson pulled apart his sandwich like he was inspecting it for structural flaws.
“You made this,” I said.
“Regretfully, yes.”
“It’s objectively terrible.”
“I used what I had.”
I laughed, a sound that surprised me with how easily it came. Jackson looked up like he hadn’t expected it either.
“I like watching you eat when you’re not scared,” he said softly.
I stilled, then set the apple down. “That’s a loaded thing to say.”
“I didn’t mean it like—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I know what you meant. And you’re right.”
I reached over and linked my pinky with his, just for a second.

Back at the truck, I climbed in and sat sideways on the bench seat while Jackson folded the blanket. When he slid in beside me, I leaned in and kissed him—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything but still offered everything. His hand cupped the side of my face. My fingers curled around his wrist. We kissed like we’d been doing it for years, and also like we might never get another chance.
When I pulled back, his breath hitched.
“Liv—”
“Not here,” I said, resting my forehead against his. “Not yet.”
He nodded.
There was no frustration in his eyes. No push. Just warmth. Just presence.

We drove back in golden light, the sun angling low across the road, casting long shadows that didn’t feel threatening. I dozed off for part of the ride, my hand resting on Jackson’s thigh, the sound of tires on pavement rolling beneath my sleep like a lullaby. When I woke, we were almost home. The sky had gone rose-pink and lavender at the edges, the kind of dusk that made everything look gentler than it really was. I stretched and looked at him.
“Today felt like ours.”
He glanced over, hand still steady on the wheel. “It was.”

There would be storms again. I knew that. But for one whole day, I hadn’t flinched. I hadn’t run. I hadn’t planned my escape. I’d lived. And I’d done it beside someone who made even silence feel like safety.