Page 83 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
He rises. “Hey, sis.” His voice softens as he pulls me into a hug.
Then he moves past me toward Jackson, who’s already coming down the hall.
“Hey, man,” Greg says, and the two clasp shoulders in that easy way they’ve had forever.
Jackson grins. “Glad you could make it.”
Greg grins. “Hell of a game last night.”
We move into the dining room. Jackson and Greg trade banter about the playoffs, while the kids weave between us. Miss Taylor pours drinks and plates food before tactfully retreating to let us have the evening.
Dinner starts casual with baked pasta, salad, and bread. The boys chatter nonstop about school and dinosaurs and whether Uncle Greg can beat Jackson in a race. Greg claims he could if given a head start and the right bribe.
“Uncle Greg,” Noah says suddenly, eyes wide. “Do you get to use those X-ray machines?”
Greg grins. “All the time. They make pictures so I can see where the breaks are.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. "You know, Ava used to fake sprained ankles just to get out of PE."
I roll my eyes. "I did not!"
Jackson laughs, leaning back in his chair. "You definitely did. I carried you home at least three times. You clung to my back like a possum."
Greg snorts. "You mean she conned you into free piggyback rides. Classic."
I throw a napkin at both of them, but I’m laughing too.
I let the sound of Jackson and Greg’s old friendship steady me. Watching them together feels grounding. It’s been years since I’ve seen them like this, and even now, something about it makes me feel safe.
Greg’s eyes flick between Jackson and me, and for just a second, I catch the hint of something in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe even a touch of realization. My stomach flips, and I quickly look away, pretending not to notice. But the weight of his glance lingers, making my pulse pick up.
Halfway through dinner, Greg gestures with his fork. "Remember those neighborhood snowball fights? Ava always insisted on being on Jackson’s team so she wouldn’t get pelted."
Jackson smirks. "Smart choice. You had terrible aim."
Greg scoffs. "I had excellent aim. You just always blocked her like some kind of human shield."
I’m smiling, but underneath it, something pulls in my chest.
Because Jackson is still shielding me, even now.
The boys drift to their rooms after dessert: sleepy, full, voices trailing softer now. Miss Taylor follows with a gentle hand on Noah’s back, promising a quick story before lights out.
Jackson and Greg head into the living room. I linger in the kitchen, collecting plates, my mind distracted by their conversation. I can’t quite make out the words, just Greg’s serious cadence, and Jackson’s calm replies. My pulse picks up anyway, my mind filling in the blanks.
By the time I step into the living room, Greg is rising from the couch, phone in hand. “Early surgery tomorrow,” he says, sliding the phone into his pocket. “I should get going.”
That’s when I hear the familiar sound of a soft voice calling out from the hallway.
"Dad, can you help me with something?"
Jackson's smile fades slightly, his focus immediately shifting. "I’ll be right there," he calls back, then looks at Greg. "Sorry, it's Noah."
Greg waves it off with a chuckle. "Go ahead. I'll head out."
As I walk Greg to the door, he turns to me. “I’m just a call away, okay? Let me know if you need anything,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
I nod, words caught somewhere beneath my ribs. He gives my arm one last squeeze, then steps out into the night. The door closes softly behind him.
