Belinda's POV
His confession hit me like a physical blow, stripping away the last layers of my anger and fear. My own parents, pragmatic and distant, had never revealed such raw, vulnerable truth. Jackson, the impenetrable fortress, was scarred by the ghost of his mother's suffering. He hadn't been rejecting me or a potential family…he'd been desperately trying to protect my life from a pain he knew intimately.
My tears, which had been for my own fear, now flowed for him. For the terrified boy who watched his mother nearly die, for the man who carried that trauma as a lifelong shield.
I shifted in his lap, turning to face him, my hands cupping his face. The strength in his gaze was still there, but now softened by a profound sorrow.
"Jackson," I whispered, the name a sacred oath. "Your mother made a choice. And she survived. She brought life into the world. You're not your father. You would never put me in danger for selfish reasons. You would protect us both."
He leaned into my touch, his eyes searching mine. "I don't know that, Love. I just know the memory. The pain."
"I know it," I insisted, my voice firm despite the lingering tremor. "I know you. And I know the difference between fear and selfishness. This isn't selfishness, Nunus. This is deeply-rooted, agonising love."
The weight of my own secret pressed down on me, heavier now that I understood the depth of his trauma. How could I tell him now? How could I reveal the very thing he feared, when his confession had just laid bare such a vulnerable wound? He loved me too much to risk it, and I was already carrying that risk. The lie became a protective shield, not for me, but for him.
"You don't have to carry that alone," I murmured, pressing my forehead against his. "Whatever future we have, we'll build it together. Every risk, every fear. We face it together."
I knew I was still lying, but it was a lie of immediate compassion. I couldn't shatter his fragile peace with my truth, not yet. He needed to heal from the past before he could face a future he explicitly feared.
After a long, quiet embrace, I finally pulled back, a new kind of resolve settling in my chest. The tears had stopped, replaced by a strategic calm. We needed a diversion, a reset. Something light, something ridiculously normal that would remind us of the simple joy we could still find.
"Alright, commander," I said, a mischievous glint in my eye. "Emotional debrief complete. Next order of business: tactical board game engagement."
He blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "Board game?"
"Competitive. Low-stakes. High-thrill," I clarified, sliding off his lap. "I saw one in the storage closet in the common room. I bet you've never played a game of pure chance in your life."
He watched me, a faint, curious smile finally touching his lips. "Pure chance? Against you? I'm game."
A few minutes later, we were sprawled on the carpet in the master suite, the ridiculously oversized Snakes and Ladders board between us. It was a vintage set, probably his grandfather's, the squares faded, the spinner a little wobbly.
"First to 100 wins," I declared, shaking the die in my hand. "And no tactical analysis of probabilities, Nunus. This is pure, unadulterated luck."
"Luck is a factor," he conceded, a glint of his usual competitive fire returning to his eyes. "But strategy can mitigate its effects. For instance, I'll aim for the squares just before the ladders."
I rolled my eyes. "That's not how it works! You just roll and pray!" I spun the spinner. "Seven! Ha!" My token, a tiny red pawn, landed perfectly at the base of a long ladder. "Up I go!"
Jackson rolled a two, landing him squarely on a snake's head. He glowered at the board. "Unacceptable. This is clearly a rigged system."
"It's karma, Nunus," I taunted, a genuine, joyful laugh escaping me—the first in days. "For being so emotionally repressed about hypothetical children."
The game became a hilarious, fiercely competitive battle. He meticulously plotted his moves even though it was all chance, muttering about "sub-optimal dice rolls" and "unforeseen environmental hazards" every time he slid down a snake. I reveled in every ladder, every setback he faced, giggling like a schoolgirl.
At one point, he landed on a square with a small, innocuous-looking snake, just two squares from the finish line. His face was a mask of utter betrayal.
"This is an ambush," he declared, glaring at the cardboard snake. "A clear act of pre-meditated aggression. I demand a full review of the board designer's tactical intentions."
I nearly choked on my laughter. "It's a game, Nunus! Just slide down the snake!"
I rolled the spinner, landed on a five, and shot straight up the last ladder, landing exactly on "100."
"Winner!" I shrieked, throwing my arms up in triumph. "Unadulterated, pure, chaotic victory! You lose, strategist!"
He stared at the board, then at me, a slow, grudging smile spreading across his face. He leaned over, pulling me into a fierce, breathless kiss.
"Pure, chaotic victory," he murmured against my lips. "I hate it. But I love you."
We lay there, tangled in the blankets, laughing, the board game forgotten. It was a silly, unforgettable moment of profound connection, a shared absurdity in the heart of our fortified world. The anxieties of the future, the war, the lie, were still there, but for a short, beautiful time, they had been replaced by the sound of laughter and the simple joy of a game. It was a moment of grace, a memory to cling to when the real battles began.
The last traces of laughter faded as Jackson and I lay side-by-side. The small, silly victory of the game had settled the tension in the room, chasing away the shadows of fear and unspoken anger. I was nestled into his side, my head resting over his heart, listening to the steady, strong rhythm. His confession—the deep, agonising truth about his mother…had dissolved my last barrier. He had laid his biggest scar bare, not to hurt me, but to protect me.
I lifted my head and looked at him in the dim light. I didn't need any more analysis, no more strategy. The truth of my feelings was simple, undeniable, and it finally outweighed the risk of vulnerability.
"Jackson," I whispered, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw.
He turned his head slightly, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and peace. "Hmm?"
"I know," I said, a soft, resolute conviction in my voice. "I know you need me safe. I know you love me. And…I love you too, Nunus."
The words, the forbidden three I had been holding back for a while, were a release, a final surrender of the strategist to the woman.
His eyes snapped wide open, filling with a stunned, profound joy. He didn't speak…he just pulled me into a kiss that was slow, deep, and utterly possessive…a silent promise and acceptance of the new terrain we had crossed.
When he finally broke the kiss, he lifted my hand and pressed his thumb into the center of my palm. I immediately understood. It was our way of sealing an oath, a silent signature.
We designed a simple, ridiculous handshake right then, lying in the dark: a complex combination of a thumb press, two finger taps (for 'us two'), a quick wrist rotation (for 'always turning back'), and a final, firm grip (for 'sealed'). It was absurd, unnecessary, and absolutely perfect. We practiced it three times, dissolving into quiet giggles before settling back down.
He kissed the top of my head and pulled me close, sighing contentedly. The silence that followed wasn't tense…it was a blanket of mutual, profound peace. I closed my eyes, the weight of the secret still heavy, but now softened by the knowledge that I was loved, and that my decision, however devastating, was rooted in protecting the love we had just confessed.