#nysm3

You can see his frustration being pushed down in real time. The two of you are in the apartment you share in New York—Bosco had to rush you back here after your show because clearly, something went wrong with your last stunt. You’ve been doing stunt magic for so long that you’re used to at least one gnarly bruise after each set, but not usually one that permeates your ribcage. Charlie and June stayed behind to clean up your set because Bosco wouldn’t let up on taking you home. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t subscribe to the belief that you have an abnormally high pain tolerance; he was ushering you out of there like you’d been shot.

He looks at you for a second, deeply frantic, but seems to decide against his impulse and takes a deep breath. “Take these.” He holds his palm up to you, two painkillers glinting in the light. “This is just Advil, but do you need the stronger one?”

It’s hard to think straight with the pain shooting through your chest, the sweat that’s pooled on your temples. “No, no,” you grunt, “I’m fine.”

You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s frowning. “But do you need it,” he repeats. “I’m serious, be honest with me, do you need it.”

There’s a box of heavier painkillers you keep locked in a cabinet in the kitchen. Your roommates know where the key is and you don’t. It’s a precaution, to ensure you don’t have a chance of getting addicted to them. Bosco’s always the one that gets them for you. Sometimes you think he keeps the key on him whenever you have a show just in case.

“Bosco,” you say firmly, and slap one of your hands onto his shoulder. You do your best to focus on that maniacally concerned expression on his face. “I don’t need them. I swear. I will be fine.”

“Stop saying that! You are very clearly not fine!” He huffs, running a hand through his curly hair. “Open, please.”

He gently taps your chin, stepping a little closer to you. There’s a furious pink blooming on his cheeks and nose that distracts you. You can’t really look him in the eye. But still, you do as he says and he drops the pills in your mouth. He hands you a glass of water, watching you like a hawk. “Y’look creepy,” you quip, trying to wash down the warmth in your face.

He gives you his classic sardonic grin. “So charming, even when you’re injured.”

You squeeze your eyes shut again. This isn’t your first rodeo, so you return to your old tactics. You try to feel the cool counter beneath your hands, the lights seeping through your eyelids, Bosco’s warmth flitting around you. You feel his leg pressed against yours and the noise of him going through your med kit. It’s nice to have him this close to you; it always has been. You never let yourself read too closely into it. Sure, he patches you up after your shows, and sure, sometimes you’re disappointed when there’s nothing for him to patch up. You know he prefers it the second way—a clean show, no risks, good reward. Problem is you want a great reward. And you want to remember what he smells like when you fall asleep. And you’re worried you want more than that.

“You should’ve said something,” he murmurs after a while. “You should’ve called it.”

Your eyes open. Bosco gets this look sometimes that teeters between disappointment and tenderness. His brows deepen but the creases under his eyes are soft, his mouth pressed into a line. There’s something honest about it that makes your heart twist, makes you want him closer.

“That would’ve ruined the trick,” you shrug.

“Who cares about the trick?”

“I do!” You exclaim. “And so do you!”

He huffs, “Yeah, but I also care about my teammates being alive and like, functional. You should’ve called it. I could’ve helped you.” He’s getting fidgety now, fiddling with a roll of gauze. “That asshole guy in the audience was distracting you, I should’ve—we could’ve stopped and gotten him out.”

“Bosco, you punched him. You don’t think that would’ve distracted me maybe?”

“He was heckling you so I just pushed him a bit and told him to shut up! I didn’t punch him, I’m not a wrestler!”

You try to grab his wrist but pain flares in your side. “Bosco—”

“Look, I know this is your area and that you do risky things all the time, but a solo show in a shitty warehouse isn’t the time to put it all out on the line and break a rib or whatever the hell you did to yourself,” he proclaims. The colour on his cheeks has ripened, but he keeps inahling like he’s trying to bury something. “You need to be safe. A good show is when you’re safe, that’s what matters. Not if it looks good or if it makes us a ton of money. Magic is supposed to look easy, so part of it has to feel easy for us too. If you’re doubled over the second you’re offstage there’s no trick in the world that’s worth it.”

“Bosco.” You finally seize his forearm, pulling him close. He stops his pacing and his flying hands. You think it’s written all over your face now that the pain isn’t going away. “I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry I wasn’t careful. But I knew the risks. I knew it was gonna hurt me and I did it anyway because it was worth it. I’m a stuntwoman, I know my limits.” A fog of nausea clouds your head, and your eyes are watering. “The pain will go away, but only if you stop freaking out so I don’t freak out. I’ll be fine. I just need you.”

Everything comes out strained. Your eyes are wet and your teeth are gritted, a state you’ve subsided to many times. Bosco’s arm had landed on your shoulder when you grabbed him, and his thumb is ghosting behind your ear. All his contempt has been electrocuted out of him. “Okay, shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, cupping the back of your neck and meeting you in a half-lidded hug. He’s warm and he smells like leather. “I got you, I’m an idiot.” He’s so close that his nose is against your hairline and you feel his breath on you.

For pain to pass, you need to indulge in it first. You let your face press into the sleeve of his t-shirt, close enough that he only needs to whisper. He lifts his face away but keeps his hand where it is, cradling the back of your head. “I’m gonna go over your cuts, okay?” You can smell the alcohol doused onto the cotton pad. There’s a brush of his hand against your shirt. “Can I… um…”

You nod. He watches you carefully, and then drops his gaze to where his fingers hitch at the seam of your shirt. He lifts it just enough to reveal the brunt of the damage: the scrapes on your torso and the giant bruise purpling your ribs. From the way Bosco’s eyes widen you can tell it doesn’t look great. “It’ll be fine,” you say softly. “I’ve had worse.”

He looks back up at you with such guilt that it makes you regret saying it. “This is gonna hurt, yeah?” He says, staring intently at the damage you’ve done.

“Yeah. But it won’t be too bad. Just a sting.”

He laughs shortly, “Feels like we should be switching lines.”

Before he does anything else he laces his free hand through yours. “Bite my shoulder if you have to,” he says, deadly serious. In response you lean forward again to rest your chin on his shoulder. You give his hand a preliminary squeeze, and he chuckles quietly so of course you want to do it again.

“Don’t wanna break your fingers,” you point out.

“They’re bendy, I’ll be fine. Ready?”

You lodge your nose in the crook of his neck. If you tried, you’d probably be able to feel his heartbeat. “Yep.” Your mouth accidentally grazes his skin and he swallows.

“Okay, deep breath.”

You inhale sharply and scrunch your face. Bosco presses the pad to your skin. First comes the chill and then comes the burning. “Ah,” you suck air through your teeth. “Shit.”

It’s like tiny pricks of glass are seeping from the gashes in your body. All the muscles in your face are bunched together. You really are abusing the privileges Bosco gave you, squeezing his hand so hard you’re pretty sure your nails will give him cuts of his own. “You’re doin’ great,” he soothes, “just a few more.”

The intensity floods back as he disinfects somewhere else. You wish you could be immune to the sharpness of the pain by now, but no luck. “Ow, fuck, fuck me, Jesus, fuck me,” you seethe.

“Please stop saying that,” Bosco mutters.

After a few more seconds of swearing and sweating, the prickliness eases. A shiver wracks you when Bosco takes the cotton pad off. “All done,” he says. His thumb runs over your knuckles, a gentle respite for you. “You okay?”

Your mouth feels dry, like half your water weight has evaporated. “Yes,” you mumble into the crook of his neck. He strokes the back of your hair and lets you stay there a moment, as warm and comfortable as you could be when your left side feels like it’s been hit by a battering ram. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he replies. You can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline or the pain or something else that’s making your heart skip a few beats.

“Could you get an ice pack?” You ask him quietly, sniffling.

He pulls back and nods, softening when he sees the look on your face. You think your pulse stills in your throat when he brushes at the tear tracks gathered beneath your waterline. “Anything else?”

You’ve realized there actually is something you want from him, very, very badly. But it hurts every time you breathe too hard and he’s still probably upset at you so now is definitely not the time. “Do we still have that ice cream in the fridge?” You ask instead.

He grins a little, like he knew you were going to say that. “Yeah. Do you maybe want, like, real food?”

“Fuck no.”

“Okay then,” he laughs, pulling himself away from you. The ache in your ribs returns tenfold without his warmth. “You sure you’re not concussed?” He asks quizzically, thumbing over your temple.

“I’m fine, Bosco, really,” you give your most assuring smile.

“Yeah? What card am I holding right now?” He steps a few paces away from you and a playing card is between his fingers like it’s always been there.

“Eight of Spades,” you read.

“Ooh, maybe you are concussed,” he winces conspiratorially, glancing at the card in his hand. “This is clearly a Six of Hearts, ma’am.”

When you look at the card again you realize it is, in fact, a Six of Hearts. He has a shit-eating grin on his face and you roll your eyes. “Fuck you, Magician.”

The ice cream has been emptied and the movie is halfway done. You’re still holding the ice pack to your ribs, feeling the dull ache every time you inhale. Bosco is watching beside you, his arm draped over the back of the couch. The two of you are sharing a blanket, but you’re still missing how close you were before he helped you off the counter. He looks really good like this, you think, when you’re drowsy and on painkillers. His bottom lip is tucked between his teeth and his hair is all mussed up, eyes glued to the screen. Sometimes you hear his fingers tapping to the movie score behind you. Bosco can get very dedicated to movie watching. But right now, you’re horribly distracted.

Both your phones buzz on the coffee table. Bosco glances at you before going to pick it up, breaking the warm bubble you’ve found yourselves in. “It’s Charlie and June,” he says, flipping the screen to you so you can see.

You take it as an invitation to scoot closer. He lets you, putting his arm back along the couch so you can cozy up to his side. He opens the text and it’s a picture of the empty theatre, your set entirely dismantled, followed by them asking if you’re okay and saying that if you are, you should all go out to celebrate. One last picture pops up of the two of them with wide smiles and a thumbs-up.

“They look so drunk,” you snort.

“They are.”

“You should go with them,” you manage to say through a yawn.

Bosco looks at you like you’re crazy. “What?”

“Go with them, celebrate! ‘m all good, don’t worry. Just need to … sleep it off.” You interrupt yourself with a yawn several times, and it’s apparent the stronger painkiller Bosco urged you to take is rearing its ugly, sedative head. “The night is young, Leroy.”

His face scrunches even further. “You do realize that if we were normal people you’d be in a hospital right now, right? Please tell me you realize that,” he implores, angling himself to face you. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“Y’need to stop worrying about me,” you murmur, “I’ve done this a million times.”

He sighs deeply. “I also need you to realize that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

You manage to keep your eyes open so you can look at him properly, his contemplative, wanting face. “Come here,” he says gently, and you do, melting into his side as he adjusts the blankets around you and holds you by the shoulders. “I’m allowed to be worried about you,” he speaks into the crown of your head, “I’m allowed to want to take care of you.”

“I know, but you don’t have to,” you slur, relishing in how warm his chest is when you rest your face on it.

“But I’m going to. I’m not going out when you’re hopped up on painkillers with a fucked-up rib, no matter how durable you think you are,” he states. And as an afterthought, he adds, “Besides, this movie’s really good.”

That makes you laugh, and everything else he says makes you feel fuzzy. You nuzzle your face into the fabric of his shirt, stretched out on the couch. His arms drape around you, careful to avoid the ice pack on your side.

“Can you hold my pack?” You mumble to him, yawning again, as your eyelids get heavier and heavier.

“Course.” His hand slips under the blanket and replaces yours, holding the ice against your bruise. “Get some rest,” he whispers, one of his hands carding through your hair.

He might’ve said something else, but you can’t remember. You breathe him in and you’re asleep by the time you exhale.

When you wake up, your side hurts. “Mmph,” you grog, your eyes pushing open. “Bosco?”

“Yeah?” You hear his voice resonating in his chest. When you look around, you realize you haven’t moved much since you were last conscious. You’re still lying against Bosco, his hand still threaded through your hair. Your cheek has been smushed into his chest. When you lift it off, you feel that it’s red from all the pressure against his shirt.

“Where’s my ice pack?” You ask blearily, clinging to him like a sloth.

He chuckles, “It melted. Want me to grab you another one?”

“Yes please,” you nod, and you catch him looking down at you with a lopsided smile. He touches your cheek where his t-shirt pattern is imprinted. Your stomach warms.

As he gets up to head to the freezer, the fog in your mind starts to clear. You wrap the blanket further around yourself. The movie playing on the TV is profoundly different from the one you were watching earlier. “How long have I been asleep?” You blink profusely, trying to wake yourself up. The apartment is still dark and the sky is black beyond your windows. Your body still hurts, but there’s a sanity that’s returned to you on account of your little nap. Everything seems more bearable, just like you knew it would be.

“Like, an hour and a half, I think,” Bosco says from the kitchen, but he’s already making his way back to you. “You feel better?”

“Much,” you nod. “Are Charlie and June still out?”

He sits back down beside you. The couch sinks under his weight. “Yep.”

You notice he has a bag of frozen peas wrapped in paper towels in his hand. When your eyebrows raise, he just sighs, “We really should invest in more than one ice pack.”

Something about his expression is different. Maybe he’s also tired, but it seems like he’s really taking his time when he looks at you. He shifts towards you and gestures, “Come.” You scootch towards him again, but this time, it seems like he wants you in front of him. He taps on one of your thighs so you lift yourself to the point where you’re effectively sitting on his lap. You’re not sure if this is what he means, but he wraps an arm around the small of your waist to settle you in, which is the equivalent of lighting ten thousand fireworks under your sternum.

You’re starting to feel something you really should not be feeling, and it gets worse when he lifts the hem of your shirt again to look at your damage. You whip your head around to the TV and ask, “What’s this about?” and hope that you sound normal and not maybe, entirely coincidentally, a little turned on.

“Christmas,” Bosco says. His eyes are still laser focused on your ribs so you’re trying to breathe as normally as possible.

“I mean the plot, Bosco.”

He shrugs. “School.”

“Very informative, aren’t you.”

You’ve mustered up the strength to turn around, but when you do you understand it’s a terrible, rotten mistake. He’s staring at the sliver of skin you massacred today with fixation, an obvious lump in his throat. “Bosco?” You say quietly.

He snaps his eyes back to you, flushing scarlet. “Yeah, I—does it—is it … does it still hurt?” He asks with a heavy tongue.

“Um,” you give a breathy, self-conscious laugh. “I mean, a little. But it’s manageable. Way better than before.”

“Yeah, right, yeah,” he swallows. He holds your gaze for another second like he’s waiting for something, and then darts back down to your ribs. Feather-light, his thumb rests on the outer ring of your bruise; you almost shiver. “Here?” He asks, and around ten billion noises get caught in your throat.

You wonder if he feels how stunted your breathing is. “No, little closer in,” you croak.

He ghosts over the curve of your rib to where your skin is the most tender. It’s hardly any pressure at all, but you inhale sharply almost immediately. “Yeah, there,” you wince out. Bosco mumbles an apology before replacing his thumb with the makeshift ice pack. The coolness sinks into your skin, tamped by the paper towel, but you’re glad that your scrapes don’t feel like they’re burning anymore.

Bosco is back to watching you. “Better?” His voice is soft and scratchy but it cuts through the noise of the TV and could probably cut through much more. It’s hard to pretend like you’re not aware of how close you are, how you can feel the shift of his thighs and the splay of his hand against your back. You could lean down and count his eyelashes. See how red his face is in the scarce light. His eyes are so dark you almost think he’s hiding something in there, inviting you to take a look.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. You can’t be bothered to think or move when this is the best possible place you could be. You really should be in immense physical pain right now. It’s unclear if the painkiller is still doing its work or if it’s just Bosco. If he’s a magician, who says he can’t be a miracle worker, too?

You keep breathing, waiting, feeling your ribs push against your skin. Bosco’s lip is pulled between his teeth again. He always looks so sure of himself but you catch him in a rare falter, where his eyes skirt away from you and then come back even stronger, and you know then that you’d do anything he told you to.

“Let me make you feel better,” he says lowly. “Please.”

Your heart warms down your insides as you follow, your arms folding against his chest as he cups the back of your neck. He guides your forehead to his, then your noses brush. He’s still watching tentatively, always watching. His breath is warm but your body is cold, and his mouth is soft when he nudges forward to kiss you.

It’s rare for your mind to go blank—you’re a stuntwoman, for Christ’s sake, it’s your job to be ready and on alert. But right now, you feel absolutely melted. Bosco kisses you slowly, generously. His hand slides down to your back, an urge for you to drop your weight even further until you’re chest to chest. He’s sinking into the couch but you have a suspicion he’s right where he wants to be, too, considering how he kisses you again, cupping your cheek and running a thumb under your jaw. You keep waiting for him to break away, for some sort of fog to clear so he comes to his senses. But Bosco is not impulsive. These are his senses, and they’re very much yours too, and you want more.

You knit your hand into the curls at the nape of his neck. He sighs softly, and you steal the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Your heart is beating so wildly against your ribcage it could form a bruise of its own. Bosco is always one to up the ante, though, so he meets you in stride. His tongue slips into your mouth like he’s been betting on it, and you think you can feel him smiling. It’s a little more urgent, a little more fun, as his hand travels the length of your spine to the back of your shirt and sneaks under. You hum a little when he traces back up, his palm burning a hole in your back as the ice is still nestled on your front. The room is getting warmer and the kisses are greedier, but Bosco is still careful with your ribs getting in the way of anything else.

“This would be a lot better if we didn’t have a bag of peas between us right now,” he says breathlessly, pulling away just enough. His lips are bitten red and his nose is wonderfully pink.

“Get rid of them,” you blurt. “They’re getting mushy anyways.”

Bosco smiles peculiarly, but to your surprise, he listens to you. “You know, I’m supposed to be minimizing your injuries,” he says after tossing the peas onto the coffee table. You shiver and he pulls your shirt back down, as you adjust gently so you can feel all of him, even where those stupid goddamn peas were keeping you away.

“You are,” you respond, breathing shallowly against him. It hurts, but not nearly enough to warrant less of this. Your forehead drops back to his and he takes your face in his hands. “As long as you distract me well enough.”

He raises his brows “Oh, is this not enough for you, my lady?” He muses, stroking a path down your neck. “Wanna hear some Shakespeare?”

“Think that would make it worse, actually.” You push some stray curls out of his face. “Look at us. A failed stuntwoman and a failed actor. We make quite a pair.”

“See, that doesn’t sound so bad when you say it,” Bosco murmurs. He presses his mouth to the underside of your jaw, so soft and surprising your pulse almost leaps out of your skin. “Still need a distraction?”

You find purchase in his hair again. “Mmhm.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he mouths against your throat, leaving tender kisses along your pulse points. It’s working wonders, really. You hardly care about how bothered your injuries are when you’re getting increasingly bothered in other places.

He gets a little more daring, teeth scraping against your neck. It draws a noise from the back of your throat that makes you shudder. “More a’ that, please,” Bosco drawls, determined to coax it out of you. And he does, mixing languid kisses with bites along your neck and collarbone. “That okay?” He asks after leaving a mark somewhere on your clavicle.

“‘m already bruised, Bosco. You've got a unique opportunity here,” you tease, running your hand through his hair.

He takes the hint and sucks a hickey into the base of your neck, making you whine. “Seems counterintuitive,” he whispers, “adding to your tally.”

“You’re just evening out the score.” You’re so desperate to keep his mouth on you that you practically drag him there. “Bosco one, drunk audience member several.”

That does the trick. He leaves a mark right under your ear, a place that feels so good it’s making you loopy. “Better start counting,” he murmurs as you squirm in his arms. He kisses the spot gently afterwards, moving back down to leave a few more, savouring every noise you make. He reaches your jaw and then your mouth, where he catches you again. “Now you’re even,” he grins.

You kiss him again, sore and exhausted, but you don’t really mind either. You think he can tell you’re getting spent by the way he cradles you into him, taking his sweet time again, rubbing circles into the small of your back. “I’ve got you,” he says against your lips. “We should get you to bed.”

Right on cue, you yawn. “What about my distraction?” You ask, settling your face into the crook of his neck.

“I’ll give you more in the morning,” he promises, kissing the top of your head. “I mean, I’m kind of hoping I could for… you know, for the foreseeable future.”

You peek back up at him and his cheeks are still rosy, his smug smile diluted with an earnestness. “I’d like that,” you say, and kiss his neck.

He’s beaming. “Cool.”

When June and Charlie get home about an hour later, half-drunk and wholly high, Bosco can hear them stumbling around the house through the crack in his door. You’re knocked out cold beside him. It’s an extremely lucky sight. You’re gonna kill him, he thinks, with your reckless abandon and your stubbornness. He knows you’re right—that you’re fine, that you’ll likely always be fine, but that won’t stop him from being there in case you’re not.

You were the one who kept the Horsemen all from completely falling apart.

You scheduled rehearsals, made sure everyone had their gear, organised the timing down to the second, and cleaned up the chaos left in the wake of their stunts. People thought you were cold, calculated, unflappable — and maybe, sometimes, you were — but that wasn’t the whole story. You cared. You cared a lot. You just didn’t make a show of it.

It was your job to be the one who stayed three steps ahead, who noticed when someone was about to make a mistake, who got between them and disaster before anyone else even realized it was coming. You managed the Horsemen the way some people manage a ticking bomb — calmly, precisely, and with a little prayer that it wouldn’t explode in your face.

And then there was Jack.

Jack Wilder.

The wildcard. The smile that made you lose your focus. The infuriating man who broke rules as easily as he broke hearts. You were supposed to keep him in line, keep him in check, keep him professional. And yet somehow, in the quiet moments, in the spaces between stunts and meetings, you found yourself pulled into him. Into his chaos. Into his ridiculous charm.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

It was reckless. Unprofessional. And yet, when he looked at you the way he did — like you were the only person in the room who mattered, the only person who could see him — you realized it didn’t matter. You didn’t care about rules in that moment. You didn’t care about logic.

Because managing a team of illusionists was one thing. Managing your own heart? That was another entirely.

And from that precarious edge, your secret began. A secret you would hide from the Horsemen, no matter how close they were, no matter how much they suspected… at least, until the day you couldn’t.

the time you pretended to hate each other

You’d been managing the Horsemen for months, which meant you knew exactly how to predict chaos — all of it. Except for one thing. Jack Wilder.

He was impossible. Charming, reckless, infuriating, and somehow always distracting you at exactly the wrong moment. Which is why, when Atlas called the team into the briefing room that morning, you sat as far away from him as humanly possible. Not too far — people would notice — but far enough to send the right message.

Jack noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“Morning,” he said, sliding into his chair at the far end of the table, voice casual. Too casual. His eyes gleamed in a way that made your chest tighten.

You didn’t respond.

Merritt, ever the observant one, tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Why do you two always sit like a divorced couple?”

You didn’t even look at Jack. “Because he’s insufferable.”

Jack smirked. “Because she breathes too loud.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Merritt groaned. “Ugh. You two are exhausting.”

Atlas cleared his throat, flipping through his notes like nothing was happening, but you and Jack both knew better. Under the table, your phone vibrated. You glanced down.

jack: you look really pretty today btw

Your stomach did a flip. Nearly choked. Your hand shook slightly as you typed a reply.

you: stop it. merritt is watching me like I’m about to explodejack: i always watch u like that. i like it

You cursed under your breath, shoving the phone into your pocket before anyone noticed.

“You okay?” Atlas asked, finally glancing at you, voice sharp but not unkind.

“Yes,” you said quickly, trying to steady your breath. “Just… coffee didn’t agree with me.”

Jack took a slow sip of his own coffee, hiding a grin that threatened to undo every ounce of professionalism you had cultivated.

And for the next hour, you sat there, pretending to hate each other, trading barbed comments, while secretly exchanging tiny smiles and texts under the table.

Perfect cover.

Well… for now.

2. the time you two almost got caught making out

The show in Buenos Aires had ended hours ago, but the theater still smelled faintly of smoke and perfume. You were supposed to be helping Jack pack up props, moving crates and folding costumes, keeping everything organized. Instead, you found yourself pinned against a costume rack, Jack’s hands tangled in your hair, his mouth claiming yours like he hadn’t seen you in weeks.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“Jack—” you warned, but he ignored you, lifting you onto a crate so your legs dangled precariously. Your hands clutched at him, unwilling to let go, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the two of you, the dim backstage lighting, the quiet hum of the empty theater.

Then a voice cut through the tension like a knife.

“HEY! Has anyone seen Jack?”

Your stomach dropped. Lula’s voice echoed down the hallway, casual but sharp, and suddenly all the intimacy you’d been wrapped up in threatened to unravel. You shoved him away so fast he stumbled backward, tripping over a fog machine with a loud clatter.

You straightened your shirt as though nothing had happened, while Jack sat on the floor, hair a mess, blinking at you like you’d just insulted his very existence.

“Does this look natural!?” he demanded, gesturing helplessly to himself.

Lula rounded the corner, saw him sprawled on the ground, and sighed. “…You’re so weird,” she said, shaking her head before walking away, clearly choosing not to involve herself in whatever ridiculousness you two were engaged in.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Jack grinned despite the mess he’d made of himself, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face.

“That was… close,” he admitted, his voice low and dangerous in that way that made your pulse speed.

“Too close,” you said, adjusting your own clothes and trying not to think about how close you’d been.

He leaned toward you again, a playful glint in his eyes, but you slapped his shoulder lightly, grounding both of you in reality.

“Not here, Wilder,” you warned.

“Noted,” he said, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Next time?”

“Next time… maybe never,” you said, exhaling, still shaky. “We nearly got caught.”

Jack laughed softly, brushing his thumb across your cheek as if to remind you that rules were optional when it came to the two of you. “Impossible,” he said. “We’re too good at this.”

“Or maybe we’re not lucky at all,” you muttered, though your heart still hammered in your chest.

One thing was certain: hiding this was going to be harder than either of you had imagined.

3. the time when he pulled a dangerous stunt

The stunt had been reckless, and you’d told him so. But Jack Wilder never listened to warnings—he thrived on adrenaline, and apparently, minor injuries were part of the thrill.

You found him in the small backstage safe room, leaning against the wall with a shallow cut across his forearm. The blood was darker than you expected, and a thin smear ran down to his wrist. His breathing was uneven, and the slight pallor of his face made your stomach twist.

“Jack,” you hissed, dropping to your knees beside him, eyes narrowing. “What the hell were you thinking?”

He tried to brush it off, waving one hand casually, but his grin faltered when he saw your glare. “Thought I could pull it off,” he said. “Slight… miscalculation.”

“Miscalculation?” you repeated, rolling your eyes. “You’re bleeding, idiot. That’s more than a miscalculation.”

He flexed his wrist, a weak attempt to make it look fine. “Technically, it’s not that bad.”

“Technically, I’ll throttle you if you move,” you snapped, grabbing a clean cloth and pressing it firmly to his wound. The iron scent of blood mixed with the faint perfume lingering in the room, and your fingers brushed the warm skin around the cut. You tried to focus, but the heat from your touch—and from him—made your pulse spike.

“You really get bossy when I’m hurt,” he murmured, voice low, teasing—but there was a vulnerability there, the kind that made your chest tighten.

“You shouldn’t be hurt, Jack. Ever,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered too long, and your pulse hammered.

Jack caught your gaze, his grin softening into something warmer. “And yet here we are.”

You groaned, shifting slightly so your knees weren’t pressing uncomfortably against the crate. “Stop flirting. Just stay still.”

“I worry you’re going to kill me with those eyes,” he whispered, and despite yourself, a small shiver ran down your spine.

“I am allowed to care about you,” you snapped, though your voice wavered. “A lot. Maybe too much.”

He reached out under the cloth, fingers brushing yours as he held your hand. The touch sent heat straight to your core. “I like that you care. About me. I like it… more than I probably should.”

Your breath caught. “Jack—”

A sudden click of the door made both of you spin. Atlas stepped in, frowning. “Everything alright in here?”

Jack sprang to his feet, straightening awkwardly, the careless grin back in place. “Yeah. Minor paperwork. Boss lady’s supervising.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to calm the rapid thump of your heart. Jack leaned against the wall again once Atlas left, watching you with that impossible look—soft, intimate, and dangerous.

“You know,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer, “you could fix this faster if you wanted to.”

“I’m not kissing the patient,” you said, adjusting the cloth, though your fingers lingered a second longer than necessary on his arm.

“Patient,” he echoed, voice low, deliberate, almost teasing. “Is that a challenge?”

Your pulse jumped, heat rising to your cheeks. For a second, it felt like everything had narrowed to just you and him, the rest of the world gone. But you shook your head. “Not here, Jack,” you whispered.

He smirked, brushing his fingers over yours one last time before stepping back. “Fine. But… next time? Maybe I’ll let you.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest still raced. One thing was clear: this secret was dangerous, and the closeness—the accidental touches, the teasing, the adrenaline—made it impossible to hide how much you felt.

4. the time you got jealous

The backstage corridor was still humming with post-show chaos when you walked through, flipping through your clipboard, trying to wrangle the team for load-out. You weren’t really paying attention—until you heard Jack’s laugh.

Not his stage laugh, not his crowd-standard charming smirk. The soft one. The one he used on you.

You looked up on instinct.

A girl was practically glued to his side, touching his arm, hair flipping like she practiced it in a mirror. And Jack—Jack was smiling politely, stepping back but not fast enough for your liking.

You felt something hot and sharp stab through your chest before you could stop it.

Ridiculous. Illogical. Dangerous.

You forced your voice steady as you walked over. “Jack. We’re overdue to load out. I need you backstage.”

The girl didn’t even look at you. “You’re the manager, right? You sound stressed.”

You blinked. “This is literally my job.”

Jack snorted under his breath and quickly covered it with a cough.

The girl leaned in closer to him. “So, Jack… if you’re free tonight, maybe you could show me a private trick? I bet you’re really good with your—”

Your eye twitched so violently that Jack actually flinched.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, backing up. “I’ve got responsibilities tonight.”

Her smile dropped. “Seriously? You’re bailing?”

Before you could react, Merritt appeared out of nowhere like a vulture smelling drama.

“Well damn,” Merritt said, grinning wide, “someone’s jealous.”

You stiffened. Jack froze.

“Excuse me?” you snapped.

“Oh, please,” Merritt laughed, waving a hand. “You were practically breathing fire. I’ve seen less rage from Lula when someone touches her props.”

“I’m not—jealous,” you sputtered. “I’m annoyed because Jack is off-schedule.”

“You don’t get annoyed like that about anyone else,” Merritt said, narrowing his eyes with delighted suspicion.

Jack’s face went bright red behind him. “Merritt—”

“No no, don’t stop me, kid.” Merritt pointed between you. “There’s something weird going on here and I intend to annoy both of you until I figure it—”

“Merritt,” you snapped, “leave before I assign your call time to 5 a.m.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You know what? I like sleeping. I’m gonna go find Lula.”

He disappeared down the hallway.

Silence rushed in behind him.

Jack stepped closer the second Merritt turned the corner. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, the quiet steadiness he saved just for you.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You kept your eyes on your clipboard even though you weren’t reading a single word. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

You exhaled sharply. “Jack, I—just don’t take unnecessary risks with fans. They don’t know boundaries.”

His gaze softened instantly. “Hey.” He tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes. “I wasn’t flirting with her.”

“I know,” you said too quickly, too quietly.

Jack inhaled like the admission punched the air out of him.

“And…” he continued, stepping just a little closer until your arms brushed, “I kind of… really liked that you got jealous.”

Your head snapped up. “Jack! I was— I was not—”

He smiled, small and unbearably soft. “You were.”

Your chest tightened. “Someone could’ve noticed.”

“They didn’t.” His voice dipped to a whisper meant only for you. “Only I did.”

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Down the hall, someone shouted Jack’s name. Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

Jack stepped backwards, but his eyes lingered on you. “I’ll go load out. Before Merritt comes back with conspiracy theories.”

He turned, hesitated, then added under his breath:

“And jealously suits you. Just saying.”

You threw your clipboard at him. He dodged, laughing all the way down the hall.

When you bent to retrieve it, you realized you were smiling—helplessly, hopelessly—because loving him in secret was impossible. And hiding it was getting harder every day.

5. the time he caught you

You were mid-sentence, hands full of cue cards and a half-dead flashlight, weaving through the mess of cables that snaked across the backstage floor. You’d walked this area a thousand times — which made it all the more humiliating when your toe caught on a thick cord and the ground suddenly tilted.

You let out a sharp gasp.

But you never hit the ground.

Jack got to you first.

It didn’t even seem possible — one moment he was across the room, arguing with Atlas about some detail in the finale, and the next his hands were around your waist, pulling you upright with a speed that didn’t feel human.

You crashed chest-first into him, breath leaving your lungs in a stunned rush, the world still spinning.

His fingers were firm around your hips. His chest rose and fell against yours. His eyes were wide — terrified, then relieved.

“Careful,” he breathed, voice rough. “You okay?”

You blinked, dazed. “I—yeah. I didn’t even fall.”

“Because you were about to,” he muttered. His hands didn’t let go, not immediately. “And because you don’t look where you’re walking.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“You could’ve gotten hurt.”

His voice was too soft. Too honest. Too close.

Your heart thudded painfully, embarrassingly loud. You became acutely aware of how close you were — his grip, your hands braced against his shoulders, your faces inches apart.

Then—

Footsteps.

You both froze.

Henley appeared around a stack of crates, brows raised as she took in the scene: you pressed against Jack’s chest, his arms still wrapped instinctively around your waist like he’d forgotten how to let go.

“…why did you move faster than gravity?” she asked flatly.

Jack recoiled as if electrocuted, stepping back so quickly he nearly tripped over the SAME cable you had. His ears were bright pink. He shoved his hands into his pockets like that would erase the entire moment.

You cleared your throat, smoothing your hair, praying you didn’t look as flustered as you felt. “I just—uh. Tripped.”

Henley’s eyes flicked between the two of you, unimpressed. “Right. And he got to you before physics did. Totally normal.”

Jack gave an awkward laugh. “Good reflexes?”

“Mhmm.” Henley stared a second longer, then disappeared behind the curtains.

Silence swallowed the space she’d left.

Jack exhaled slowly. His voice dropped. “You almost fell,” he murmured, as if he still needed to explain himself. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

Your heart beat so hard you wondered if he could hear it.

“…thanks,” you said, softer than you meant to. “For the catch.”

He looked at you then — really looked — and the pink in his ears deepened.

“Anytime,” he whispered.

And the way he said it made it sound like he meant every time, in every possible situation.

Like catching you was the most natural instinct he had.

6. the time you were cold

You were shivering in the backstage corridor, hugging yourself as you tried to stay warm. The lights were dim, the crew was packing up props, and your teeth were clattering just slightly.

Jack appeared behind you like he had eyes in the back of his head. “You’re freezing,” he said, tone teasing, but you caught the edge of concern.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, tugging your jacket tighter around yourself.

Jack didn’t argue. Instead, he shrugged off his hoodie, still warm from his body, and stepped closer. “Here,” he said, draping it over your shoulders. Your hands brushed as he adjusted the sleeves, pulling them down just right. His chest brushed your back in the process, and you froze.

“Jack…” you began, your voice small, almost breathless.

“Shh,” he whispered, leaning just enough to make sure the hoodie sat comfortably. “No one’s around.”

Except someone was.

A soft cough echoed behind you both. You spun just in time to see Henley peering around the corner, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“…What exactly is happening here?” she asked, voice suspiciously calm.

Jack’s hands froze mid-adjustment. He stepped back instantly, face flushing pink, trying to make it look casual. “Uh… she was cold,” he said, shrugging as though handing over a hoodie required no explanation.

You tugged the hoodie tighter around you, cheeks burning. “Yeah, cold,” you echoed weakly, pretending the warmth spreading through your chest was just the fabric.

Henley tilted her head, unconvinced. “Hmm. Right. Sure. Totally normal.”

She walked away, muttering something under her breath about you two being “ridiculous.”

You exhaled shakily, heart pounding, realizing just how close you’d come to being found out. Jack’s fingers brushed yours again as he stepped past, soft and casual — and suddenly, the hoodie felt like the safest, most intimate thing in the world.

“You know,” he murmured once Henley disappeared from view, voice low, “we really need to be more careful.”

You swallowed, biting your lip. “Yeah… about that.”

He smirked, sliding just a little closer. “But admit it — it was worth almost getting caught.”

And somehow, you knew it was.

the time they found out

The hotel room was tiny. One queen-sized bed dominated the space, leaving just enough room for suitcases and two very stubborn egos.

You dropped your bag with a groan, arms crossed. “Seriously? One bed?”

Jack slammed the door behind him, pretending to fume. “Seriously? One bed? This is outrageous.”

You matched his theatrics perfectly. “It’s absurd! Who thought two professionals could possibly share a bed?”

“Ridiculous,” he shot back, pacing. “I will not compromise my personal space.”

“Neither will I,” you spat, pointing at him. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

Atlas, standing in the doorway with a brow raised, blinked. “Uh… you two… can’t you just—”

“No.” Jack cut him off immediately. “Absolutely not. I will not swap beds with anyone else.”

You nodded furiously. “Me neither! This is our fight.”

Merritt leaned against the wall, smirking. “Uh… you can swap with one of us, you know?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “No.”

You nodded, eyes narrowing. “…No. This is our battle.”

The Horsemen exchanged glances. “…Oh,” Atlas said slowly, like he’d just realized you two were… insane.

For a few minutes, you and Jack huffed, groaned, and dramatically threw pillows at each other, pretending to be utterly miserable.

Then, once the “audience” of Horsemen had left the room, the act fell away. You sank onto the edge of the bed, arms crossed, pretending indignation, but your heart was racing far too fast to maintain the act.

Jack flopped down opposite you, giving you a mock glare. “I can’t believe I have to share a bed with you, of all people.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, tone clipped, though your lips twitched. “I’d rather sleep on the floor than next to you.”

He tilted his head, grin softening. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” you said, sitting up a little straighter, trying—and failing—to look indignant.

Jack leaned closer, dangerously close, just enough that your knees brushed. “You know, it’s kind of… nice. This closeness,” he murmured, voice low.

You froze, heart stuttering. “…Nice?”

“Yeah,” he said, reaching out just a fingertip, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I mean… not that I like having you near me or anything.”

“Of course not,” you said quickly, voice sharp, but you didn’t pull away.

Jack smirked, inching even closer, his arm brushing yours. “Good. Me neither.”

You let out a soft laugh, the tension melting a little. “We’re really bad at pretending, aren’t we?”

“Terrible,” he agreed, pressing his hand lightly against yours under the blanket. “But it’s… kind of fun.”

You glanced at him, and in that small, cramped hotel room, with one bed between you and the world outside, it did feel fun. It felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Jack leaned back, still holding your hand, eyes twinkling. “Just… try not to smile too much. The others are watching.”

“I can’t make any promises,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

-

The morning sun had barely crept into the tiny hotel room when the soft click of a lock made you stir.

Jack, still half-asleep, grumbled something incoherent, arm draped over your shoulder as you nestled your head against his chest. The blankets were tangled around both of you, limbs impossibly intertwined, and for once, the world outside this small, one-bed room didn’t exist.

Then the door burst open.

And there they were: Atlas, Merritt, Henley, and Lula, all standing in the doorway with arms crossed, expressions a mixture of triumph, amusement, and barely contained laughter.

You froze, Jack’s arm tightening around you instinctively.

“…Oh,” Henley breathed.

Jack blinked, sitting up slightly, hair mussed, face pink. “Uh… what—?”

Atlas stepped forward, smirking. “Don’t even try it. We knew.”

“We knew you two would act like this,” Merritt added, voice dripping amusement. “Which is exactly why we hid it for as long as we could. We thought maybe you’d, I don’t know… keep up the act forever.”

You buried your face further into Jack’s chest, mortified, while he ran a hand over his hair, trying to look composed. “We… we can explain,” he muttered, voice low and flustered.

“You don’t have to,” Lula said cheerfully, grinning from ear to ear. “The bed kind of gave it away.”

Henley shook her head, a slow smile forming. “Oh, come on. I knew it. All those ridiculous fake arguments last night? Total cover. I should’ve bet on it.”

Jack groaned, leaning back against the headboard. “We were pretending! Totally pretending!”

“Pretending?” Atlas echoed, voice flat, eyebrow raised. “You two looked like kittens tangled in a blanket.”

You peeked up at them, cheeks flaming, and Jack muttered under his breath, “We’re doomed.”

Merritt chuckled, stepping closer. “Doomed? Nah. Adorable, maybe. But definitely caught.”

You swatted at him, flustered. “We weren’t caught! We—”

Henley leaned in, voice teasing, cutting you off. “Yep. Totally caught. And the best part? You both thought you were so sly.”

Jack sighed, burying his face in his hands. “We’re never living this down, are we?”

Atlas shook his head, smirking. “Nope. Not a chance. But honestly… I knew.”

You peeked at Jack, half-laughing, half-mortified. He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, whispering, “I told you we should’ve been more subtle.”

Lula laughed, pointing at the bed. “Subtle? You were practically screaming ‘secret couple’ with every pillow toss last night!”

You groaned dramatically, pretending indignation, while Jack wrapped an arm around you again. “Fine. Admit it,” he murmured, smirking. “It was kind of worth it.”

You buried your face against his chest, letting out a soft laugh. “Yeah… kind of.”

Atlas shook his head again, smiling knowingly. “Just don’t act like you two can hide it next time. We’re onto you.”

Merritt added, smirking: “And we’ll make sure everyone else knows the moment you try.”

Jack muttered under his breath, “Great. Life’s over.”

You squeezed his hand, grinning. “Nah. Life’s just officially… more fun.”

And for once, even with the Horsemen watching, the fake hatred, the pretending, the secrecy—it all felt completely, wonderfully pointless. Because now everyone knew, and somehow, it didn’t matter at all.

It has been ten years since the Horseman last performed a show together. Ten years since the disaster in Russia that fractured the group beyond repair.. all except for the two of you.

Your relationship with Jack had been a slow, steady burn from the moment you met. He’d always had a talent for picking locks, slipping past barriers no one else could manage—and somehow, he’d managed to pick the lock around your heart too. The two of you had been secretly dating, waiting to share your relationship with the others after the big mission to take down an arms dealer. But when a close friend was captured, the plan collapsed—along with the Horsemen themselves.

Afterwards, you and Jack built a quiet life far from the chaos of illusions and secrets. You returned to school to chase the degree you’d always dreamed of, and Jack settled into work at a small local office. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe. Predictable. Yours.

Until the night a sudden knock echoed through your home—shattering the calm you’d fought so hard to build, and letting magic slip back into your life like it had never left at all.

The private event was as glamorous as the special guest; the heart diamond. You stood off to the side of the grand room, dressed in a backless black gown. One shoulder was draped in soft fabric, and the hem hovered just above the marble floor as you mingled with guests. You wore your best practiced smile, though your eyes kept drifting across the room.

And there he was.

Jack—sharp in a black-and-white suit reminiscent of the one he wore on your wedding day. He caught your gaze and gave you a subtle wink before seamlessly melting back into the shadows.

A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd. Your head lifted just in time to see an old friend standing atop a pedestal, commanding the room. Danny’s voice carried over the gathering as he teased the diamond’s owner, the so-called royalty of the event, Veronika. With a few taunting words, he coaxed her into lifting the Heart Diamond from its locked case and tilting it beneath the lights.

The gem was breathtaking—though too large for your taste—and you couldn’t ignore the dark history you and Jack had uncovered during research before arriving in Antwerp.

Danny’s eyes swept dramatically across the room… until they landed on you. His expression faltered in a flash of recognition. Caught, you turned your back and pretended to strike up a conversation with the nearest person.

“Hi—have you tried the arancini balls?” you asked brightly, already forming a plan.

The man stared at you, stunned into silence as his gaze traced your dress. He nodded slowly.

You inhaled, locking eyes with him as your hand curled around his forearm. “I think it’d be great if you grabbed me a plate,” you said sweetly. “Though…I suggest you trip and fall onto the table.”

His eyes glazed with compliance. He shuffled toward the serving table. You counted down from five under your breath—

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

A spectacular crash. The man sprawled dramatically across the table, food scattering in every direction. The crowd’s attention whipped toward the chaos—just in time for Danny to reclaim the spotlight with a burst of light as the diamond exploded into dust, then reappeared in his hand.

You rolled your eyes. Of course. Now you understood his angle. And now you needed to figure out yours. Observation—the magician’s greatest weapon.

Scanning the room, you spotted a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty, moving strangely—eyes darting toward two guards as the mess unfolded. When she stepped toward them with a wine bottle in hand, instinct—or maybe something maternal—propelled you forward.

On the way, you snatched a long silk tablecloth. The first guard was already distracted by the girl, so you focused on the second. In one swift motion, you whipped the cloth around his torso and yanked him toward you.

He stumbled, confused. You winked.

Then drove the heel of your shoe down onto his foot.

He folded in pain, giving you the perfect opening to cinch the silk tightly around him. One hard shove sent him crashing backward into a table piled high with food.

The girl stared at you, dark eyeliner making her eyes appear even wider as recognition hit her. “You… it’s you.”

You gave her a small nod, understanding now—she wasn’t a bystander. She was part of this. Part of someone’s plan.

You jerked your head toward the exit, spotting Danny weaving through the crowd with Jack close behind him.

Without another word, the two of you sprinted toward the grand staircase leading out of the hall. You glanced back to check that she was still with you—

—and collided head-first into something solid.

Fortunately, that “something solid” was the chest of your husband.

Jack’s arm immediately wrapped around you, steady and protective, his other hand instinctively checking you over. “You okay?” he murmured, worry etched across his face.

You nodded quickly and looked past his shoulder—only for your breath to catch.

“Henley!”

She stood a few steps away, looking almost exactly the same but somehow sharper, stronger. You hadn’t seen her in years—not since everything fell apart—and yet instinctively, you pushed past Jack and threw your arms around her.

She hugged you back just as tightly.

The moment barely lasted a heartbeat before a familiar voice boomed across the space.

“Alright, emotional reunion later—we gotta move!”

Merritt. Loud as ever. Unchanged, for better or worse.

Jack’s hand pressed gently but firmly against your back, guiding you forward. “Come on,” he urged.

You followed the group toward the exit, the world suddenly spinning back into motion—the old team, the old danger, the old magic pulling you in whether you were ready or not.

The exit plan was reckless at best, but typical of the Horsemen. You landed hard on the boat waiting below, Jack’s arms catching you before you could stumble. The moment your feet were steady, you moved toward the railing, bracing your palms against the cool metal as you tried to gather your thoughts. The night had been chaos layered on chaos, and your mind was still struggling to keep pace.

Behind you, the others were talking—old rhythms slipping back into place as if no time had passed at all. You leaned back against the built-in bar, only half-listening, until Henley’s voice rose above the rest.

“Wait—hold on. Is that a ring?”

Your breath caught. You looked down at your left hand as if you’d forgotten the band was there, glinting faintly in the boat’s lights. Henley’s gaze was locked on it, her brows high in genuine shock.

The whole deck went quiet.

You swallowed, glancing toward Jack. He was leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed, wearing a smirk that told you he was thoroughly enjoying the show.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your voice steadier than you felt. “I’m married.”

The reaction was immediate.

Merritt let out a whoop. “Little you? Married? No way—absolutely not. Last time I saw you, you were practically a kid!” He pointed accusingly at you before breaking into a proud grin. “Look at you all grown up!”

Henley clapped her hands over her mouth, delighted. Danny gasped. The three newcomers—Atlas’s new recruits—looked on awkwardly, unsure if they were allowed to join in.

Questions exploded at you from all directions.

“When did this happen?”

“Who’s the unlucky—uh—lucky guy?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Do we know him?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but Danny cut through the noise, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Hold on… Jack, you haven’t said anything.” He pointed between you and your husband. “What’s wrong? Upset your little crush on her from all those years ago didn’t work out?”

Merritt let out a loud laugh.

Jack didn’t.

He pushed off the railing and walked toward you, his stride slow and deliberate. The others watched, confusion spreading across their faces as Jack stopped at your side, his hand brushing your lower back before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

The deck fell silent again.

Jack looked up, meeting every stunned stare with a raised brow. “Why would I be upset,” he asked smoothly, “when I’m the one she married?”

Henley’s jaw dropped. Merritt made a strangled noise. Danny blinked like his brain had short-circuited.

“You—wait—WHAT?”

“We were going to tell you years ago,” you added, sliding your fingers into Jack’s. “But the timing was… complicated. And then everything fell apart. So… yeah. Surprise.”

There was a beat of silence before the entire group erupted again, this time louder—laughing, shouting, cheering, asking ten more questions at once. Even Atlas cracked a rare smile from the back.

And through the noise, Jack leaned toward you, whispering just for you:

“Guess the cat’s out of the hat now, sweetheart.”

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