Jackson’s POV*
The candle flame danced between us like it knew exactly what was happening. Her hand still covered mine. Warm. Steady. Thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over my knuckles while my pulse tried to punch through my skin.
“Mommy,” I whispered. The word slipped out before I could cage it—small, cracked, needy.
Her eyes flared. Dark pupils swallowing the hazel until they were almost black. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t pull away. She just leaned in until her lips were a breath from my ear.
“That’s right, baby boy,” she murmured. “Say it again.”
“Mommy.”
A soft, pleased hum vibrated in her throat. She squeezed my hand once—firm—then released it and stood. The chair legs scraped softly against the hardwood.
“Come here.”
I stood on legs that felt borrowed. She didn’t wait. Just turn
