Chapter Six — Cracks in the Armor

Chapter Six — Cracks in the Armor

The next evening, Elena stood barefoot in her kitchen, folding the same towel three times before realizing she wasn’t actually doing anything with it. Her thoughts kept drifting—back to the balcony, to Jack’s steady voice, to how it had felt to speak the truth out loud and not be met with discomfort or distance.

She had just placed the towel down when a knock sounded at her door.

Not rushed. Not insistent. Just a knock. Present, like him.

She pulled the door open to find Jack standing there—not fidgeting, not holding a package—just holding a simple paper takeout bag and a quiet look in his eyes.

“I made too much,” he said. “Thought maybe you and Lila could help me out.”

Elena blinked, touched by the gesture even before she could answer. “She’s still with her dad.”

Jack nodded. “Then maybe you need it more.”

She hesitated. The old reflex whispered say no, keep the distance, don’t let anyone in. But it was his tone that disarmed her—the way he said it like he knew exactly how the silence chewed at her, how the loneliness crept in when the apartment was still.

She stepped aside. “Come in.”

Jack entered with easy stillness, removing his shoes at the door like he belonged—not because he assumed, but because he respected the space. Elena watched him move, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. Safety? Disbelief?

The food smelled of soy and ginger, warm and rich. They sat at the small table in her kitchen, eating from mismatched dishes, steam rising between them.

It wasn’t a date. It didn’t need to be.

They ate in companionable quiet, the occasional murmur about the food filling in the gaps. When they finished, Jack rolled up his sleeves and began to help with the dishes like it was natural—like he’d done it a hundred times.

“You don’t have to—” Elena began.

“I know,” Jack said. “But I want to.”

His fingers moved easily through the motions, rinsing, drying, stacking.

She watched him. It was strange how normal it felt.

And how terrifying that was.

When the silence returned, Elena surprised herself by breaking it.

“You said you knew what pain looked like.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered. A memory surfacing.

He turned back to the counter, drying his hands on a faded towel. “My dad was a preacher.”

She waited, sensing the weight behind the words.

“Big smile. Loud sermons. Everyone loved him,” he said. “But behind closed doors, he had a temper that didn’t wait for permission.”

Elena’s stomach twisted. She knew this story. Different characters. Same script.

“I could never win. If I cried, I was weak. If I stood still, I was lazy. If I talked back, I was damned. The belt came out faster than the Bible did.”

He turned toward her now, his posture loose but his jaw tight. “He always said he was saving me from sin. But I think he just liked control. The sound of obedience.”

Her throat tightened.

“I left when I was seventeen. Slept in my truck behind a gas station. Got a job washing dishes. Took every paycheck and built a wall between me and him.”

He looked up and met her gaze.

“I don’t talk unless there’s something worth saying. I don’t touch unless I’m invited. I don’t yell. I don’t break things. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure I never become him.”

The room felt still, like something sacred had been said.

Elena stepped toward him, just a little. Not enough to close the space completely. Just enough to show she was still there.

“I know that kind of fear,” she said. “The fear of who you might turn into. The fear of what damage might be hiding in you.”

Jack nodded once. “But we’re not them.”

She wanted to believe that. Standing there in her kitchen, with her walls down and the air thick with old hurt and new truths—she wanted to believe it so badly it made her ache.

He moved to the door slowly, not because he was unsure, but because he knew how hard it was to end a moment like this.

She walked him to the door. She didn’t know why. Only that she wanted to.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For the food?” he asked, one eyebrow raised gently.

She shook her head, the smallest smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “For not running.”

He met her gaze and held it there. “I’m not going anywhere, Elena.”

This time, she believed him.