Only when we burn

Chapter 12:The gift

After all the morning activity, I was exhausted. Jackson's arm curled around my shoulders as we walked back toward the car park, our steps slower than usual, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

"You look about ready to drop," he murmured, glancing down at me. "Shall I take you home?"

I nodded, even though a small knot of hesitation tugged at me. I'd promised Nate and Aarti I'd drive them back into town. We were meant to explore, unwind... escape. Jackson was more than welcome to come with us, but I didn't think that's what he had in mind.

I glanced at them. Aarti was already eyeing me like she knew what I was about to say. Nate scratched the back of his head, then gave a little shrug. "We'll head into town," he offered. "You two go home."

"You sure?" I asked, guilt inching up my spine.

"It's fine," Aarti said, holding out her hand. "Keys, please."

I wondered if this was a good decision after all, as they would now have more time to discuss fully whatever happened the night before. With this thought, I fished out the keys of the VW and handed them over. "Have fun."

"Oh, we will," she grinned, and with a wink, they disappeared into the car.

Nate paused before closing the door. "Thanks for lunch, Jack."

Jackson gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "My pleasure. We'll see you later."

We watched them pull out of the driveway, the car disappearing into the shimmering heat of the afternoon road.

When my hadn reached for the car keys, it rested on a small wrapped gift. I hesitated. Maybe this wasn’t the right time. Maybe I should wait until later, when we were settled, when there wasn’t so much unsaid between us. But the thought of keeping it tucked away any longer made my chest ache.

"Wait," I said, catching Jackson's arm before he could head toward his car. "I have something for you."

I reached into my purse and pulled out the package, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. "I want to give you this."

Jackson stared at the package like it might bite him. His hands remained firmly at his sides.

"It's not much," I said quickly, holding it out. "Just something small. Happy birthday, Jack."

He looked from the gift to my face, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Bella—"

"Please. Just take it."

A long moment passed. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he accepted the package but didn't unwrap it. Just held it like he didn't know what to do with it.

"Aren't you going to open it?" I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.

"This is sweet, Bella. Really. But you didn't need to—"

"Need to?" I stepped back, stung. "I wanted to. There's a difference."

Jackson exhaled slowly, and then he placed a steadying hand on the small of my back and led me silently through the winery's side path, the unopened gift still clutched awkwardly in his other hand. We cut through the cool corridor until we emerged into the back lot, where his car waited under the eucalyptus shade. He opened the passenger door for me without a word.

The silence wasn't angry, it was just uncomfortable.

I settled into the seat and buckled in, my fingers fidgeting with the strap. Jackson walked around to the driver's side, still carrying my unopened gift. When he slid behind the wheel, his shoulders were tenser, and his jaw was set in that way that meant he was holding something back.

As the engine purred to life, I turned to him. "What's wrong ?" The frustration I'd been swallowing since the restaurant finally bubbled over.

He pulled out of the parking space deliberately, eyes fixed on the road. The gravel crunched under the tires. His jaw ticked as we reached the main road, but still nothing.

"I just wanted you to have something from me for your birthday. That's all."

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been frustration or resignation. "Bella, I told you, I don't celebrate my birthday, and there's a good reason for that. The cake was lovely and thoughtful. But, I don't need you to buy me things."

There it was again. That carefully measured control. That wall he built when something touched too deep. But this time, I could see the connection.

"You can't stand being the receiving end of anything, can you?" I said, the realisation hitting me like a cold wave.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

The words had been building in me since we left the winery, and now they spilled over. "You get to do all the giving, all the orchestrating. You choose when I see you, when we sleep together, what we do, and where we go. But the moment I try to give you something—a cake, a gift, anything—you shut down. Why?"

"You think this is about the gift?" he snapped, but the fire faded as soon as it came.

"No," I said, my voice growing stronger. "It's never about the gift. I want to give you as much as you give me, but you act like it's some kind of burden."

He was quiet for a long moment. "That's not fair."

"And accepting Sarah's gift but not mine is?"

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He glanced down at the unopened package still sitting on the console between us, then back at the road.

"You're right," he said quietly, so quietly I almost missed it.

I blinked. "What?"

"You're right. I do shut down when people try to give me things." His voice was strained. "And you're right that it's not fair."

A long silence stretched between us. Finally, he pulled the car over to the side of the road and cut the engine. With careful, deliberate movements, he picked up the package.

"I don't know how to receive things," he said, not looking at me. But that's not your fault."

His fingers hesitated on the paper, and for a moment I thought—finally, he was letting me in.

And then his phone rang.

Jackson's hand clenched around the package. His phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen. "Rosie?" His tone shifted instantly, softer somehow. He set my gift down on the centre console and slipped out of the car.

I sat frozen as heat crawled up my throat. Through the windshield, I watched him pace into the field, one hand tugging through his hair as he spoke in low murmurs I couldn't catch. Once again, I was just a bystander in his life.

Rosie.

Of course, it was Rosie.

Was there ever a version of this where she wasn't in the middle of everything?

I stepped out of the car, shutting the door a little too hard. I leaned against the hood, arms crossed tight against the sting in my chest. A fresh ache threaded through my earlier frustration—not just jealousy, but the gnawing truth that his world could be pulled away from mine in a single phone call.

Minutes passed. When he finally came back, his face was pale, drawn.

"Ben's been arrested," he said without preamble.

"For what?" I asked, heart pounding.

"Financial fraud. The Lance Corp deal—it's all unravelling." He ran a hand through his hair. "Rosie has information about what really happened, about how deep this goes. If she doesn't talk to the feds, if she doesn't tell them what she knows about Ben's dealings, they're going to assume the whole company was complicit."

Something in my chest cracked. "What does that mean for you?"

"It means I could lose everything. Not just the company; criminal charges, prison time." His voice was tight, controlled. "I have to go to L.A., Bella. Tonight."

My heart sank. "Tonight?"

"Rosie's the only one who can corroborate that Ben was acting alone, and it was negligence. She has emails, documents that prove I wasn't involved in the fraud. But she's scared. She won't talk to anyone but me."

The words hit me with a sickening weight, settling heavily in my stomach. I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it.

But I also understood. This wasn’t about choosing Rosie over me. It was about survival.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"I don't want to leave you," he said, coming closer to press his forehead to mine. "Especially not like this, but if I don't go—"

"I understand."

He nodded. "Can we talk when I come back?"

I stared at my feet, a dozen different emotions coiling in my stomach. Jealousy, not just of Rosie, but of anything that took him away from me, understanding of why he had to go, frustration that once again, his world was pulling him away just when we needed to talk. I feared that this pattern would never change.

"How long will you be gone?" I asked.

"I don't know. A few days, maybe a week. It depends on what the investigators need."

His gaze dropped to the still-unopened gift in the car. I looked at the package too—such a small thing that had started such a big conversation.

"What are you so afraid of, Jackson?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "Because when people give me things, they usually want something in return. And when they don't get it..." He trailed off.

"I just want you," I said softly. "And giving you as much happiness as you give me."

His expression changed—vulnerability creeping through the cracks in his armour. A beat passed. His thumb stroked my cheek. "I love you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah," I whispered. "I love you too."

He finally reached into the car and grabbed my gift. He slowly began to unwrap it to find an old Australian 50-cent coin on a simple leather cord, the coin's surface worn smooth with age but still showing the distinctive kangaroo and emu.

His breath caught.

"I've had this coin for as long as I can remember," I said quietly. "Whenever I was stressed, I'd twirl it between my fingers—it grounded me somehow. I had something engraved on the back, for you."

He turned the coin over, and I watched his face as he read the simple inscription: "Home."

"You gave me a compass to help me find my way," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to give you something to remind you what you're coming back to."

He closed his eyes, his fingers closing around the coin. When he opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears.

"It's a piece of my home, my past," I continued. "So now, you can carry it with you wherever you go."

"Bella..." His voice was rough with emotion.

"You don't have to wear it—"

"Help me put it on," he said quietly.

I moved closer, taking the coin from his hands. He bent his head forward, and I slipped the leather cord over his neck, the coin settling against his chest, hidden beneath his shirt. When he straightened, his hand came up to press the coin against his heart through the fabric.

"Thank you," he said. "It's perfect."

The moment hung between us like a song that never quite resolves.

"Go," I whispered. "Do what you have to do. But come back to me."

"Always," he said, and kissed me like it was a promise.