#jackson blake

The first thing you noticed after the crash was the sound of the rain.

Not the pain. Not the smell of burned rubber. Not even the fact that your hands were locked around the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles had gone white.

Just the rain.

It hit the windshield in quick, uneven bursts, sliding down the cracked glass in thin lines that blurred the red and blue flashes outside. For a few seconds, you could not understand why there were lights. You could not understand why your car was angled strangely near the shoulder of the road, or why your chest felt like something heavy had been slammed into it.

Then everything came back at once.

The green light. The intersection. The car that came too fast from the side. The headlights. The awful sound of metal folding in on itself. Your body jerking forward against the seatbelt so hard the air left your lungs.

You tried to breathe, but it came out shaky.

Your phone was somewhere on the floor. Your purse had spilled open across the passenger side. A carton of strawberries had burst, bright red fruit scattered under the dashboard like something too cheerful for what had just happened. The grocery bag with Jackson’s favorite cereal was ripped, the box crushed against the door.

For some reason, that was what made your eyes fill with tears.

Jackson had texted you only twenty minutes ago.

get the good cereal. not the healthy one. love you.

You had rolled your eyes when you read it, smiling at your phone in the grocery aisle because he acted like you were personally trying to ruin his life every time you bought something with fiber in it.

Now the box was flattened. The front of your car was smashed. Your chest hurt. Your shoulder burned. Your ears rang.

And you wanted Jackson so badly you could barely think, someone knocked on the window.

You flinched so hard pain shot through your ribs.

A man stood outside in the rain, bending slightly to look in at you. His mouth was moving, but for a second you could not make out the words. Then the sound came rushing back, too loud all at once.

“Are you okay? Can you hear me?” You nodded automatically, though you were not sure if you were okay. You could hear him. That was something.

The door creaked when he opened it carefully. Cold air and rain rushed in, making you shiver “Don’t move too much,” he said quickly. “I called 911. They’re on the way. Were you alone?”

You nodded again “My boyfriend,” you whispered, but you were not even sure why. Maybe because Jackson was the only coherent thought in your head.

The stranger’s expression softened. “Do you want me to call him?”

Your fingers were shaking too badly to answer. He helped you find your phone under the brake pedal, the screen cracked at one corner but still alive. When he handed it to you, your thumb hovered over Jackson’s name.

For a moment, you almost did not call.

Jackson had practice early the next morning. He had been tired all week. He had been trying to balance training, media, family calls, and making sure he still came home with enough energy to curl into you on the couch at night. He worried so easily when it came to you, even when he pretended he did not.

You did not want to scare him, but then your chest spasmed with another shaky breath, and you pressed call before you could talk yourself out of it. He answered on the second ring “Hey, baby,” Jackson said, warm and familiar, his voice softened by the comfort of home. “You heading back?”

You opened your mouth, nothing came out, there was a pause. Not long. Barely a second, but Jackson knew you too well “Baby?” His voice changed immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Your throat tightened. You looked through the rain-smeared windshield at the wreckage of your hood. “I got hit.”

Silence, then the sound of movement. Fast movement. A chair scraping back. A door opening. Keys being grabbed “What do you mean, you got hit?” he asked, and the calm in his voice was so forced it almost scared you more. “Are you in the car? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know,” you cried, and once the tears started, you could not stop them. “I don’t know, Jack. My chest hurts and my shoulder hurts and the car is—”

“Okay. Okay, listen to me.” His breathing was uneven now. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I was driving home and the car came out of nowhere, and I don’t—” Your voice broke. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Hey. Stay with me. Is someone there?” You looked up at the man still crouched near the open door. “Yeah.”

“Give him the phone.” You handed it over with trembling fingers, the man spoke to Jackson, giving him the street name, the nearest intersection, what he had seen when he pulled over. You heard Jackson’s voice through the phone, sharp with panic and trying desperately to sound controlled.

“Is she bleeding?” “Did she hit her head?” “Is she talking normally?” “Are the paramedics there yet?” “Tell her I’m coming.”

When the phone came back to you, Jackson was breathing hard “I’m on my way,” he said.

“You don’t have to come.” the words came out weakly, automatically, like some stupid instinct to make things easier for him, Jackson made a sound that was almost wounded “Don’t say that to me,” he said. “Don’t ever say that to me when you’re hurt.”

“I just—”

“No. I’m coming. I’m already in the car. Keep talking to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Tell me what you bought" You blinked, tears still slipping down your cheeks. “What?”

“At the store,” he said, his voice shaking around the edges. “Tell me what you bought at the store.”

“Jack—”

“Please,” he whispered, and that broke you more than anything else. “I just need to hear you.” So you told him, you told him about the pasta. The sauce. The strawberries. The cereal. The stupid good cereal he had asked for. You told him about the flowers you had almost bought for the kitchen but did not because you thought they were too expensive. You told him about the old woman who smiled at you in the checkout line because you dropped a lemon and it rolled halfway across the aisle.

Jackson listened to every word like it was the most important thing he had ever heard “That’s good,” he kept saying. “You’re doing so good. I’m almost there.”

The ambulance arrived first, the paramedics were kind, careful, asking questions you had to answer twice because your mind kept drifting. What day was it? Did you lose consciousness? Did your head hurt? Could you move your fingers? Could you feel your legs?

You could.

Everything hurt, but you could.

They fitted a brace around your neck just to be safe and helped you out of the car. The second you stood, your knees almost gave out. One of the paramedics caught you gently, but the panic surged again, thick and humiliating “I’m okay,” you said quickly, even as your voice wobbled.

The paramedic gave you a look that was soft but knowing. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”

You wanted to believe that, then, over the sound of rain and emergency radios, you heard him “Where is she?” Jackson’s voice.

You turned your head too quickly and winced, he was running toward you through the rain, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp, face pale in a way you had never seen before. A police officer stepped in front of him, probably to keep him away from the scene, but Jackson pointed toward you and said something too low for you to hear.

Whatever it was, the officer moved.

Jackson reached you seconds later, he stopped short, like the sight of you in the neck brace, wrapped in a reflective blanket, was something his mind could not process. His hands lifted, then hovered uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you “Baby,” he breathed.

That one word was enough, your face crumpled “I’m sorry,” you sobbed, Jackson’s expression broke. “No. No, no, no. Why are you sorry?”

“The car,” you cried, looking past him toward the crumpled front end. “Your car is ruined.”

He stared at you like you had slapped him, then he dropped to his knees in front of you on the wet pavement, not caring about the rain soaking through his jeans. His hands found yours, gentle and shaking.

“I don’t care about the car,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t care about the car. I care about you.”

“But—”

“No.” He shook his head quickly, eyes bright. “I don’t want to hear about the car. I don’t want to hear about insurance or repairs or anything else. You called me. You were awake. You’re here. That’s the only thing that matters.”

You tried to nod, but the brace stopped you. Your breathing hitched again, Jackson noticed immediately “Hey, look at me.” His hands tightened just enough around yours to ground you. “Look at me, sweetheart. Breathe with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’ve got you.” He breathed in slowly, dramatically enough for you to follow. Out. In again. Out again.

It was ridiculous, maybe, that the same boy who could barely sit still through a movie without fidgeting was now the steadiest thing in the world. But he was. He stayed on his knees in the rain, his face inches from yours, guiding your breathing until the worst of the panic began to loosen.

The paramedic told him they wanted to take you to the hospital to get checked. Jackson nodded immediately “I’m going with her.”

“Sir—”

“I’m going with her,” he repeated, and there was something in his voice that made even the paramedic pause, You looked at him, exhausted and trembling. “Jack.” His eyes snapped back to you, softening instantly. “I’m not leaving you.”

So he didn’t.

Not in the ambulance, where he sat beside you with one hand wrapped around yours and the other brushing damp strands of hair from your face. Not at the hospital, where he answered questions when you got tired of talking. Not when they took you for scans and told him he had to wait outside, leaving him standing in the hallway with both hands pressed to the back of his neck like he was holding himself together by force.

When they finally brought you back, he was there before the nurse had even finished adjusting your blanket “What did they say?” he asked quickly. “Are you okay? Did they check your ribs? Your head? Your shoulder?”

The nurse smiled gently. “She’s bruised and shaken up, but nothing is broken. No concussion. She’ll be sore for a while.”

Jackson closed his eyes, for a second, all the fight went out of him.

He sat down hard in the chair beside your bed and covered his mouth with one hand. His shoulders shook once. Barely. If you had not been watching him so closely, you might have missed it “Jack,” you whispered.

He looked up immediately, trying to pull himself back together. “Yeah. What do you need?”

“You.” He stood so fast the chair scraped against the floor. He leaned over the bed and kissed your forehead, your temple, your hairline, every place he could reach without hurting you “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

That night, he took you home with discharge papers folded carefully in his pocket and your prescription bag in his hand. He drove like he was transporting something priceless and fragile, both hands on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors every few seconds “You’re driving like an old man,” you mumbled from the passenger seat, voice tired.

“I’m driving like someone who has precious cargo.” You gave him a small look. “Precious cargo?”

“Very precious. Slightly concussed-looking cargo.”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

“I know. They said that. I’m still watching you.”

“I can tell.” He glanced at you, his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but could not quite manage it yet.

At home, Jackson became almost impossible.

He helped you out of the car even though you told him you could walk. He unlocked the door before you even reached it. He guided you to the couch with one hand hovering behind your back and the other holding yours. He brought you water, then another blanket, then ice, then your medication, then a pillow, then a different pillow because he decided the first one was “not supportive enough.”

“Jackson,” you said after he asked for the fourth time whether the room was too cold.

“What?”

“You’re pacing.” He looked down at himself like he had not noticed. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m checking things.”

“What things?”

“Things.” You stared at him, he exhaled and sat on the coffee table in front of you, knees bouncing. His eyes flicked over your face, your shoulder, the angry seatbelt mark beginning to darken near your collarbone “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly.

Your heart softened “Come here.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He moved carefully, sitting beside you on the couch like the cushions themselves might injure you if he shifted too quickly. You leaned into his side, and he adjusted right away, wrapping his arm around you without putting pressure on your ribs.

For the first time since the impact, your body relaxed “I keep seeing it,” you whispered, Jackson’s jaw tightened. “The crash?” You nodded, then winced because your neck was sore, he noticed that too “Careful” he murmured, brushing his lips over your hair. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to. But I don’t want to.”

“That’s okay.” His hand moved slowly up and down your arm. “We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”

“It was so fast.”

“I know.”

“I thought I was fine at first. Then I saw the front of the car and I just—” Your voice broke again. “I thought you were going to be mad.” Jackson pulled back just enough to look at you “Mad?” he repeated, like the word did not make sense in his mouth.

“At the car. At the damage.” His face twisted with pain. “Baby.”

“I know it sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid. It sounds like you were scared.” His thumb brushed lightly over the back of your hand. “But I need you to hear me. I am never, ever going to care more about a car than I care about you.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” His voice grew thick. “When you called me, I didn’t even remember what car you were driving. I didn’t think about money or damage or anything. I thought about you sitting there alone and scared, and I—” He stopped, swallowing hard, you reached up carefully, touching his cheek. “Jack.”

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he admitted, the room went quiet, the rain had softened outside, tapping gently against the windows. Jackson’s eyes were red, his face drawn with exhaustion and fear. He looked younger somehow, stripped of every layer of joking confidence he usually wore so easily. “You didn’t,” you whispered.

He turned his face into your palm. “I know.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.” But from the way his hand covered yours, holding it against his cheek like proof, you knew he was still trying to believe it.

The next morning was worse, the doctor had warned you it would be. Bruises deepened overnight. Your ribs ached every time you inhaled too deeply. Your shoulder felt stiff and tender, and your neck protested when you tried to turn your head. Even standing from bed made you suck in a sharp breath.

Jackson, who had apparently slept for maybe twenty minutes total, was up immediately “Don’t move,” he said, appearing beside the bed like he had been waiting for the sound.

“I have to pee.”

“Okay. I’ll help.”

“I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

“I’m not going in with you,” he said quickly, cheeks flushing despite everything. “I’m helping you get there.” You would have laughed if your ribs did not hurt.

He helped you sit up, one hand behind your back, the other holding your forearm gently. His focus was intense, almost frighteningly so, like helping you stand was a high-stakes playoff moment “Slow,” he murmured. “Take your time. Don’t rush.”

“Jack, I’m bruised. I’m not ninety.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m sore.”

“You were in a car accident.” You sighed. “You’re going to say that a lot, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” And he did, all day.

When you reached for a glass in the cabinet, he appeared behind you and grabbed it first. When you tried to carry your own plate to the sink, he took it from your hands. When you stood up too quickly, he caught your elbow and looked at you with such alarm you almost apologized for having legs.

By noon, he had built what he called your “recovery station” on the couch: water bottle, medication, snacks, ice pack, heating pad for later, phone charger, remote, extra blanket, and a notebook where he had written down the times you were supposed to take medicine “You made a chart?” you asked, staring at it.

He looked defensive. “It helps.”

“You wrote ‘check on baby’ every hour.”

“That’s not medicine-related. That’s for me.” You stared at him for a beat before your lips began to tremble with a smile, Jackson’s expression softened. “There she is.”

“What?”

“You smiled.” Your smile faded into something gentler. “You’ve been watching for it?” He shrugged, but his eyes gave him away. “Maybe.”

The team noticed immediately.

Jackson told the coaches what happened, and although you insisted he could go to practice the next day, he still looked physically pained by the idea of leaving you “I’ll be fine,” you promised from the couch, wrapped in a blanket, hair messy, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole.

He crouched in front of you, already dressed for practice, but making no move toward the door. “I can stay.”

“You already missed yesterday.”

“They understand.”

“Jackson.” He looked down, you softened your voice. “You need to go.”

“I don’t like leaving you alone.”

“I’m not alone. Your mom said she’d come by. And I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“You’ll actually call?”

“Yes.”

“Not just sit here and pretend you’re fine?” You gave him a look. “I will call.” He studied your face like he was trying to catch a lie. Then he nodded, though he still looked miserable, at the door, he came back three times.

“Your phone is kind of heavy,” he said seriously.

“Go to practice.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Go.”

When he finally left, the apartment felt too quiet, at the rink, Jackson was not himself.

Everyone could tell, he was there physically. He went through warmups, tied his skates, taped his stick, answered when spoken to. But there was a delay in him, like part of him was still sitting beside your hospital bed listening to a doctor say the word lucky.

During drills, he missed a pass he never would have missed normally. Then another. He apologized under his breath, jaw tight, and reset. But his eyes kept flicking toward the bench where his phone sat inside his bag, like he could somehow hear it through the walls if you called.

One of the guys nudged him after the drill. “You good, Blake?” Jackson nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

It was such an obvious lie that no one believed it, after practice, he was the first one off the ice. Usually he lingered, joking around, chirping, taking extra shots, but that day he was out before half the team had even reached the bench. He checked his phone immediately.

No missed calls, no emergency texts, just one message from you

still alive. your mom brought soup. stop worrying,

Jackson stared at it for several seconds, shoulders dropping with relief “Is she okay?” one of his teammates asked carefully from nearby, Jackson looked up, and for a second his guarded expression slipped. The fear was still written all over him “Yeah,” he said. “She’s okay. Bruised up. Sore.”

“Man, that’s scary.” Jackson nodded, throat bobbing. “Yeah.”

The locker room got quieter than usual around him. Not awkwardly, just gently. The guys who usually chirped him for being attached to his phone did not say a word when he texted you back immediately.

good. keep being alive. proud of you.

Then, after a pause:

did you take your meds?

A few seconds later, you replied.

yes dad

Jackson laughed softly at his phone, but the sound cracked a little at the end, the teammate beside him pretended not to notice, over the next few days, his protectiveness only got worse, sweet, but worse, he woke up whenever you shifted in bed.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m rolling over.”

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

“You made a noise.”

“Because I have ribs, Jackson.”

“I know. They’re bruised.”

“I am aware.” He insisted on driving you everywhere, even when you only needed to go five minutes away. The first time you sat in the passenger seat again, your hands started shaking before you could hide it. Jackson noticed immediately but did not make a big deal out of it.

He simply reached over and held your hand “We can go back inside,” he said “No. I want to try.”

“Okay.”

“But drive slow.” He gave you a serious look. “I have never driven fast in my life.” you turned your head slowly to stare at him “Okay,” he amended. “I have never driven fast in my life while precious cargo was in the car.”

At the first intersection, your breath caught, Jackson felt your hand tighten and without looking away from the road, he said, “We’re good. I see him. I see the light. I’m stopping. We’re good.”

You closed your eyes for a second “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You’re not ridiculous.”

“It was just a car accident.” His voice lowered. “It wasn’t just anything. You looked at him, his eyes stayed on the road, but his jaw was tense “It happened to you,” he said. “So it matters.” That shut you up for the rest of the drive.

A week later, you went to the rink for the first time since the accident.

You had not planned to. Jackson had a light practice and then a team meeting, and his mom was busy that afternoon. You insisted you were fine staying home alone, but he looked so anxious about it that you finally sighed and told him you would come with him if it made him feel better.

He tried to pretend it did not, it absolutely did, he carried your bag even though it only had a book, water, and your phone charger inside. He kept a hand on your lower back as you walked through the parking lot. Not pushing, not crowding, just there. A quiet reminder that he was beside you, inside, a few of the guys spotted you immediately.

“Hey, there she is.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Good to see you up and around.”

Jackson’s hand stayed at your back the whole time, you smiled, a little overwhelmed but touched. “I’m okay. Just sore.” one of the older guys gave Jackson a pointed look. “He letting you breathe?”

You laughed. “Barely.” Jackson did not even deny it “Good,” the guy said. “He’s been useless without you.” Jackson’s ears went pink. “I have not.” Another teammate leaned against the wall, grinning softly. “You missed three passes in one drill because you were looking at your phone.”

“I was checking the time.”

“You were checking if she texted.” Jackson looked away, your chest tightened, but not in the painful way.

You knew he had been worried. You had seen it in the way he hovered, the way he slept lightly, the way his hand reached for you in the middle of the night even before he was fully awake. But hearing that it had followed him here, onto the ice, into the one place he usually felt steady, made something ache inside you.

“Jack,” you said softly, he glanced down at you, you reached for his hand and squeezed it “I’m here.”

For a moment, the hallway faded around you. His expression shifted, that same raw look from the hospital flickering across his face, then he nodded once. “Yeah.”

The guys noticed that too, so they stopped teasing.

At practice, you sat in the stands with a blanket around your shoulders, watching Jackson skate. He looked over at you constantly. Not every few minutes. Constantly. Between drills. During water breaks. When the whistle blew. After he took a shot. When someone bumped him lightly into the boards. His eyes found you like a reflex.

At first, it made you smile, then it made you sad, because Jackson was still scared, he was skating, laughing when someone chirped him, doing everything he was supposed to do, but there was a thread tied from him to you, pulled tight with fear. He needed to know you were there. Awake. Breathing. Safe.

After practice, one of his teammates skated by the glass and tapped it near you with his stick “He’s been looking up here every thirty seconds,” he mouthed.

You rolled your eyes affectionately, but when Jackson came off the ice, you were waiting near the tunnel, his hair was damp, cheeks flushed from skating, but the first thing he did was scan your face “You okay?”

You stepped closer. “Yes.”

“Did you get tired?”

“A little.”

“Are your ribs—”

“Jackson.” He stopped, you glanced around. A few guys were pretending very badly not to listen “I love you,” you said quietly. “And I love that you care. But you look like you’re going to have a heart attack every time I blink too hard.”

A couple of his teammates suddenly became very interested in their sticks, Jackson’s face flushed. “I’m not that bad.” someone coughed, “You are.”

Jackson shot him a look, you took both of his hands. His were still cold from the rink “I’m not saying stop caring,” you said. “I’m saying you can breathe too.” His expression softened, then cracked a little. “I don’t know how.”

The honesty of it made your throat tighten, Jackson looked embarrassed the second he said it, glancing down at your joined hands. “I keep thinking about the call. I keep hearing your voice. And then when I’m not with you, I start thinking maybe you need something, or maybe you stood up too fast, or maybe—”

“Baby,” you whispered, he pressed his lips together “I know I’m being too much,” he said.

“You’re not too much. You’re scared.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I wasn’t there.”

“You came.”

“After.”

“You came when I needed you.” His eyes lifted to yours “You stayed,” you added. “You took care of me. You made medication charts. You yelled at a pillow because it wasn’t supportive enough.”

One of his teammates snorted behind him, Jackson groaned. “You were not supposed to tell people that.” You smiled softly. “You made me feel safe.”

The teasing around you faded again, Jackson stared at you, the fight leaving his shoulders “You did,” you said. “And I know you’re still scared. I am too sometimes. But I’m getting better. We’re getting better.”

He nodded slowly “Okay,” he murmured.

“Okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than usual. His lips were cold from the rink, but his hands were warm around yours, from behind him, someone said, “Look at Blake growing emotionally.” Jackson did not even turn around. “I will throw a skate at you.”

“No, you won’t,” another voice said. “Your girl said breathe.” You laughed, and this time Jackson did too, a real laugh, not perfect. Not free of fear. But real

The recovery was not instant, there were still nights when you woke up from dreams of headlights and Jackson woke up right beside you, arms already reaching. There were still moments in the car when your heart jumped at a sudden brake light, and Jackson quietly reached over without making you ask. There were still days when your body ached and you cried because you were tired of being careful.

Jackson stayed through all of it.

He learned when to hover and when to step back. Not perfectly. Sometimes he still took things out of your hands before realizing you were fully capable of carrying them. Sometimes he still watched you walk across the room like the floor might disappear beneath you. Sometimes he still texted you too many times from practice.

But he tried.

And you learned too.

You learned to call him when you felt scared instead of pretending you were fine. You learned to let him help without feeling guilty. You learned that being loved by Jackson meant being worried over, teased gently, tucked into blankets, and held through the ugly parts without him once making you feel like a burden.

Two weeks after the accident, you went to another practice, this time, Jackson only looked up at you every few minutes.

Progress.

Afterward, you waited near the locker room, scrolling on your phone while the guys filtered out one by one. They greeted you warmly, some asking how you felt, others dramatically thanking you for bringing Jackson’s brain back to his body.

“He completed a full drill today,” one of them told you solemnly. “Miracle.”

“I hate all of you,” Jackson said as he appeared behind him, you smiled. “Proud of you.” His teammate clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s proud of you, man. Big day.”

Jackson rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he reached you “Ready to go home?” he asked.

You nodded, he reached for your bag out of habit, then paused, you raised an eyebrow, his hand hovered, the effort on his face was almost painful, finally, he lowered his hand. “Do you want me to carry that?”

You softened immediately. “You can.” Relief flashed across his face so clearly that you laughed “You’re adorable.”

“I’m traumatized.”

“That too.” He laced his fingers with yours as you walked toward the exit. Outside, the air was cool, the sky gray, the parking lot damp from earlier rain. You felt the familiar tightening in your chest as you approached the car, but it was less sharp than before.

Jackson noticed anyway, he always noticed, he stopped beside the passenger door and turned to you. “We can wait.” You shook your head. “No. I’m okay.”

“You sure?” You looked at him, really looked at him. The boy who had dropped to his knees in the rain. The boy who had sat awake all night making sure you were breathing easily. The boy who had been so shaken his teammates saw it before he could hide it. The boy who loved you so much it sometimes made him clumsy with fear.

You squeezed his hand “I’m sure.”

Jackson opened the door for you, watching carefully as you got in. He still looked nervous, but when he climbed into the driver’s seat, he took a breath before starting the car, he glanced over at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m proud of you too.” His face softened, the drive home was quiet. Not silent in the scary way the crash had been, but peaceful. Jackson kept one hand on the wheel and one hand open on the console. You placed yours over it halfway home, and his fingers curled around yours instantly.

At a red light, he glanced at you “I know I’ve been a lot,” he said quietly.

“You’ve been exactly what I needed.” His throat bobbed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The light turned green, but for a second, he just looked at you like he was memorizing the moment. Then someone honked behind you, and you both jumped, Jackson startled so badly you burst out laughing, then immediately winced and held your ribs, his panic returned at once. “Don’t laugh. Laughing hurts. Stop laughing.”

“You jumped harder than I did.”

“Because they honked aggressively.”

“It was a tiny honk.”

“It was hostile.” You laughed again, softer this time, and Jackson groaned like you were personally trying to undo your recovery. But he was smiling too.

When you got home, he carried your bag inside, helped you out of your jacket, and paused before asking if you needed anything. You could tell he wanted to list water, medicine, ice, soup, pillows, blankets, and probably a full medical team. Instead, he took another breath “What do you need?” he asked.

You reached for him “This.” he came without hesitation.

On the couch, he settled beside you, careful as always, letting you curl into him at your own pace. His arm wrapped around you, warm and steady. You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the heartbeat that had become your favorite sound since the accident.

“I’m still scared sometimes,” you admitted, his hand moved gently through your hair. “Me too.”

“But not all the time.”

“No,” he whispered. “Not all the time.” You closed your eyes, this quiet did not feel like the one after the crash, this quiet had Jackson’s breathing. His warmth. His thumb brushing slowly over your shoulder. His lips against your hair, this quiet was safe.

And when Jackson whispered, “I’ve got you,” you believed him, not because he could stop every bad thing from happening, not because he could keep the world from being frightening, but because he had already proven that when everything went wrong, when the lights blurred and your hands shook and you could not find your way back to yourself, he would come running.