Page 54 of Under Southern Stars
“Mm’already asleep,” Madison mumbles.
“Come on. School tomorrow.”
Madison sits up, blinking. “Oh. Hi, Jack. Did I fall asleep?”
“Right about the time they entered the Fire Swamp.”
“Classic.” She stretches. “Thanks for dinner. And the science lesson.”
“Anytime.”
She hugs her mom, then, surprising me, gives me a quick hug too. “Night, Jack. Thanks for being normal.”
After she heads upstairs, Sophia walks me to the door.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For tonight. For being so good with her.”
“I meant what I said. I want to be part of your life. Both your lives.”
She kisses me, slow and deep. When we break apart, her eyes are bright.
“Two and a half weeks,” she murmurs.
“Two and a half weeks,” I agree. “Then you meet my slightly abnormal family.”
“Can’t be worse than Troy.”
“Famous last words.” I kiss her once more. “Breakfast tomorrow? Before shift?”
“The place with the good pastries?”
“Six thirty? I know it’s early, but—”
“It’s perfect. I’ll already be up anyway.”
“It’s a date.”
I drive home with the ghost of her kiss on my lips and the echo of Madison’s laughter in my ears. Six-thirty tomorrow morning—just the two of us, good coffee, her smile across the table.
Two and a half weeks until New Zealand. Until I have to navigate introducing the woman I love to a world I walked away from. Not because I’m ashamed—fuck no. My family worked hard for what they have. But that’s just it—it’s theirs, not mine.
I chose ambulances over board meetings. Chose saving lives over stock portfolios. Chose to matter in ways that can’t be measured in profit margins.
The weight of not telling Sophia sits heavy in my chest. It’s not about trust—Christ, I’d trust her with my life. But once people know about the money, everything changes. Every gesture gets questioned. Every gift becomes suspect.
I just want more time being Jack-the-paramedic, not Jack-the-heir-who-disappointed-his-family. More dinners where we argue about pasta techniques. More movie nights where I’m just the guy Madison calls “normal.”
Tomorrow at breakfast, I’ll probably chicken out again. Order her coffee, watch her review staffing schedules, and convince myself that waiting until New Zealand is better. That showing her is better than telling her.
My phone buzzes. A text from Emma: “Mum’s beside herself with excitement. She’s already planning menus for your ‘special friend.’ Fair warning, she’s assuming wedding bells.”
I groan. My family’s going to scare Sophia off before she even processes the estate situation.
But then I remember Madison’s hug. Sophia’s trust. The way they both just accepted me into their lives.
Maybe—just maybe—they’ll accept all of me too.
Even the parts I’ve spent years running from.
