Chapter 69

Chapter 69
Chapter 69: “What Love Looks Like”

POV: Jackson

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I can’t pinpoint exactly when it all began. 

Maybe it was that day when she stayed silent despite having every reason to scream. Or perhaps it was when she stood her ground, met my gaze, and refused to let me escape from my own mistakes. 

Maybe it was that moment she stood in the loft, one hand resting on her belly, the other gently tracing the texture of the brick, as if it held memories of its own. She didn’t need to say much; her actions spoke volumes. The way she scanned the room hinted that she was envisioning a brighter future for herself. 

Something serene. Something that truly belonged to her. 

She hasn’t officially moved in yet, but I’ve noticed that she slips away there sometimes when life gets too overwhelming. She doesn’t mention it, but I can see the difference when she returns, she seems quieter, more grounded. It’s like that peaceful space does something for her that I can't quite replicate. 

And I’ve finally stopped pretending that I don’t care. 

I love her. 

Not because she’s expecting my child. Not just because we got married in that absurd little Las Vegas chapel. And not merely out of a sense of obligation. 

I love her because she sings off-key while folding the laundry. Because she always gets lost in that same painting in the hallway, as if it’s sharing secrets with her. Because she grumbles softly when the kettle takes too long to boil. Because there are moments when she bites her lip while lost in thought, completely unaware she’s doing it. 

I love her in those quiet, unnoticed ways. 

And maybe I’ve been in love with her longer than I care to admit. 

Tonight, I get home to an unsettling silence. There’s no kettle whistling, no soft tunes drifting from her phone, just stillness. 

I knock lightly on the bedroom door. “Elizabeth?” 

There’s no response. 

I check the kitchen and the living room. 

Then I hear it, the rapid, shallow breaths. 

It’s coming from the bathroom. 

I push the door open slowly, and there she is, sitting on the cold tile, knees hugged to her chest, arms wrapped protectively around her belly, as if she’s shielding our baby from whatever storm is raging inside her. Her breathing is quick and erratic, and her eyes are wide and glassy. 

I pause for a moment—not out of fear, but guilt. 

Because I wasn’t here when she needed me. 

And because I know exactly what this moment signifies. 

“Hey,” I say softly, lowering myself to the floor in front of her. “It’s okay. I’m here.” 

She doesn’t respond, just continues to breathe too quickly. 

“I’m not going to touch you,” I assure her gently. “But I’m right here.” 

I sit across from her, mirroring her position. Deliberately, I slow my breathing, long inhale, long exhale, hoping she’ll catch my rhythm. 

“Can you try to breathe with me?” I whisper. “We’ll do it together, alright?” 

She blinks at me, once, then twice.

She takes a deep breath, hesitating as her body seems reluctant to shake off the tension. But I keep us steady, breathing in slowly, breathing out just as gradually, and before long, she starts to find her rhythm alongside me.

Little by little, her breath begins to relax.

“I saw the article,” she says softly, her voice raspy. “Someone sent it to me. It claimed… claimed Pearl would never have ended up pregnant without a plan.”

I shut my eyes for a moment. “Wow.”

“She always knew how to handle things. She did everything right. She was flawless.”

“No,” I interject firmly. “She wasn’t flawless. She was simply the one your parents favored. That’s not the same.”

She meets my gaze. “I’m exhausted from feeling like the mistake.”

I'm not sure why I do it, but I move a bit closer. Not touching, just close enough for her to sense I’m here to stay.

“You’re not her,” I whisper, my tone low and steady. “You are your own person. And I wouldn’t want to change you.”

Her gaze drifts down to her hands.

“You don’t have to trust my words now,” I continue. “But I’ll keep saying it anyway.”

Though she doesn’t respond verbally, she leans in a bit. Her forehead comes to rest against my shoulder, and her breathing finally starts to even out.

We remain like that for some time, no urgency, no pressure, just the space between us and an unspoken understanding hanging in the air.

Eventually, I help her up. She doesn’t resist as I lead her to the couch and wrap a blanket around her shoulders. I prepare some tea, not because it will solve anything, but because it gives her something comforting to hold.

She sips it slowly, watching the steam swirl from the cup.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she murmurs after a pause.

“You didn’t frighten me,” I say softly. “You just made me realize how much I care.”

Her eyes widen slightly at that. “That’s not your responsibility, Jackson.”

“I understand,” I reply. “But it’s not about responsibility. It’s about you.”

She sets the cup down and looks me in the eyes.

“I don’t know how to accept love,” she confesses. “Not like this. Not without some sort of catch.”

I reach for her hand, and this time, she allows me to hold it.

“Then let’s learn together.”

A brief silence stretches between us.

“I didn’t think I would ever say this,” she whispers, “but I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” I reply genuinely.

And I truly mean it, more than I’ve ever meant anything before.