Chapter 80

Chapter 80
Chapter 80: “Some Kind of Soft”

POV: Elizabeth

The morning after the dinner, I woke up before the sun.

The house was quiet, still. I didn’t reach for my phone. I didn’t check the time. I just laid there in bed for a while, listening to the silence, staring at the ceiling. My head felt heavy, like the words from last night hadn’t fully settled.

The letter.

The dinner.

My mother’s carefully chosen phrases.

Pearl’s smug expression.

My father’s silence.

I didn’t regret walking out. I didn’t regret what I said. But that didn’t make it any easier to sit with.

I finally got up and walked into the studio barefoot, wearing one of Jackson’s old shirts over a pair of leggings. The place smelled like paint and old coffee, familiar and calming. I tied my hair up loosely and grabbed a brush.

I didn’t have a plan, just colors. A streak of blue across the canvas, then a splash of gold. I wasn’t thinking too hard. I just needed to move, to let something out.

The music played softly from the speaker on the shelf. An old playlist I made back when I first moved in. Songs I used to hum to myself when I needed to feel safe.

At some point, I heard the creak of the floorboards behind me. I didn’t turn right away. I knew it was him.

Jackson didn’t say anything. He just walked in quietly and set a cup of tea down beside my palette. I glanced at it, then at him.

He looked tired too, like sleep hadn’t come easily for him either. His hair was messy, and he was still in his pajama pants and a plain black shirt.

“You didn’t have to get up,” I said.

He shrugged a little. “Didn’t feel like staying in bed.”

I dipped the brush into more paint. A soft green this time. I wasn’t trying to make anything in particular, just layers. Texture. Movement.

Jackson sat down in the corner of the studio, on the armchair we dragged in here a few weeks ago. He didn’t speak. Just watched.

After a while, I paused and wiped my hands on a rag. I looked over at him. “You don’t have to stay with me all the time,” I said gently.

He didn’t hesitate. “I want to.”

It hit something in me, soft and unexpected. I didn’t argue. I didn’t tell him he was wasting his time. I just nodded and picked up my brush again.

That silence between us used to scare me. It used to feel like distance. But this… this was different. This was okay.

After a few more strokes, I dropped the brush into a jar of water and stepped back from the canvas. My hands were smudged with color. There was paint on my wrist, and I wiped it absentmindedly with my thumb.

Jackson reached beside the chair and held up a small pack of crackers.

“You forgot to eat,” he said, holding them out.

I laughed softly. “Did you raid the kitchen?”

“I panicked,” he said. “Didn’t know if you were in a cereal mood or toast mood, so I brought the safest option.”

I walked over and sat beside him on the armrest, grabbing a cracker. “You chose well.”

He looked at the painting behind me. “It’s different from your usual stuff.”

“I wasn’t really trying to make anything,” I said. “Just… painting.”

He nodded. “It looks like you’re letting yourself feel again.”

I looked down at the tea in my hands. It had gone a little cold, but I didn’t mind. “Last night… that dinner… it hurt more than I thought it would.”

“I know,” he said. “But you handled it.”

I looked at him. “Did I?”

“You stood up for yourself. You stood up for us.”

There was something steady in his voice. Like he saw something in me that I was still learning to see.

I rested my head lightly against his shoulder. He shifted, just slightly, to make room for me.

“You don’t always have to be strong, you know,” he said quietly.

I let out a breath. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. About them. About what they say. It still gets to me.”

“That doesn’t make you weak.”

I nodded. “It just makes me… human, right?”

He smiled. “Exactly.”

We sat like that for a while. No big conversations. No plans. Just soft, quiet morning light and the comfort of knowing we didn’t need to fill every silence.

A part of me wanted to say something more, about how grateful I was that he was still here, about how I was slowly learning how to let people in again, but the words didn’t come.

Instead, I just stayed close. That was enough for now.

After a bit, I stood up and stretched.

“I should probably eat something real,” I said.

“I can make you toast,” Jackson offered.

I raised a brow. “Burned or undercooked?”

He smirked. “I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing.”

“In secret?”

“In private,” he corrected.

I grinned and followed him out of the studio. We walked down the hall slowly, like neither of us wanted to rush the moment.

In the kitchen, he fumbled with the toaster while I leaned on the counter. He handed me a knife and some butter like it was a peace offering.

“I feel like we should do something normal today,” I said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Go for a walk. Watch a movie. Sit on the porch and complain about the neighbors.”

He chuckled. “That sounds perfect.”

I looked at him. “Thank you… for coming with me last night.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know. But I want to.”

He paused, then stepped closer and kissed my forehead. “You were amazing last night. I hope you know that.”

I blinked a few times, warmth rising in my chest. “I’m trying to believe it.”

He smiled. “Then I’ll keep reminding you until you do.”

And somehow, standing there in our quiet kitchen, with badly toasted bread and cold tea, it felt like something real was growing between us. Something soft. Something worth holding onto.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it could last.