Chapter Fifty - Jackson's Return

The house was cloaked in silence, the kind that settled thick in the bones late at night. The only sound was the occasional creak of wood shifting against the chill outside. In the kitchen, a dim overhead light hummed above Camila and Thomas. The clock on the wall ticked past 2:11 AM.

Camila sat at the table, her eyes fixed on the rim of her tea mug. She hadn't taken a sip in over twenty minutes—it had long gone cold. Her hands were wrapped tightly around the ceramic, not for warmth but to stop them from shaking.

Thomas stood by the counter, arms folded across his chest. He'd been pacing earlier, full of restless frustration, but now stood still, the tension pulled tight across his frame like a wire ready to snap.

"I can't stop picturing him alone out there." Camila murmured, her voice raw with exhaustion. "He's fifteen, Thomas. Fifteen."

Thomas exhaled slowly. "I know. I've been trying to think of where he might've gone. I've called every friend, checked every street I know he hangs around. Nothing. It's like he disappeared."

Camila blinked slowly. "Maybe he wanted to disappear. Can't really say I blame him..."

Before Thomas could respond, there was a soft noise from the front door. The click of the latch. The unmistakable groan of old hinges.

They froze.

Footsteps followed—light, hesitant, almost fearful.

Camila stood so fast her chair scraped against the tile. Thomas turned sharply toward the hall.

Then—there he was.

Jackson stood in the doorway of the kitchen, damp hoodie hanging from his shoulders, backpack half-zipped and heavy with things he probably didn't need. His eyes were ringed with shadows, his face pale beneath the strands of rain-slicked hair falling across his forehead. He looked... smaller. Like a balloon slowly deflating from the inside out.

Camila stared for a moment in disbelief.

"Jackson?"

He nodded weakly, mouth trembling. "Yeah. It's me."

She crossed the room in three strides and wrapped her arms around him before he could even think to flinch. Her hands clutched his back, fingers fisting in the fabric of his hoodie as if anchoring him in place. "Oh my God," she whispered into his shoulder. "You're here. You're okay."

Jackson didn't speak. He just stood there, allowing himself to be held, his own arms eventually curling around her like a child who'd finally given up pretending to be brave.

Thomas joined them moments later, his hand settling gently on Jackson's back. "Where have you been?" he asked softly.

"I don't know." Jackson murmured. "Around. Different places. I slept in a friend's garage one night. Then the park. I just... didn't want to come back yet."

Camila pulled back slightly to look into his face. "Why, baby? Why didn't you just come home?"

Jackson looked down at the floor, ashamed. "Because I didn't think anyone would notice if I didn't."

The words hit both parents like a punch. Camila's eyes brimmed with tears. "Of course we'd notice. You're our son. You're everything. Harriet and Cody have been driving around for days trying to find you! We have been trying to find you."

They guided him to the kitchen table, where he sank into the chair like his legs had finally given up holding him. Camila placed a fresh towel over his shoulders, while Thomas poured hot chocolate into a mug with shaking hands.

"I didn't run because I wanted to hurt you." Jackson said quietly, looking between them. "I did it because I wanted to be seen. Every time I get into trouble, someone finally pays attention. At least for a little while."

Camila reached for his hand across the table, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "You don't need to act out to be seen. You don't need to break to get our love."

"I didn't think that was true anymore." he whispered.

His eyes filled with tears, and then he said the words that had been festering like rot inside him: "Grandma said I needed to be sent away. To some place for 'kids like me'. Somewhere I'd get 'straightened out'. She thinks I'm bad."

Camila's face paled. Thomas's jaw clenched.

"She told you that?" Thomas asked.

Jackson nodded, barely holding himself together. "She said you were thinking about it too. That it was for the best."

Camila moved to kneel in front of him again, her eyes locked with his. "Jackson, look at me. That is not true. I don't care what your grandmother said—she doesn't get to make those decisions, and she certainly doesn't know you. You are not bad. You are not broken. You're hurting, baby. That's not the same."

Jackson shook his head as the tears began to fall. "But what if I really am too much? I mess everything up. Everyone's always mad or disappointed."

"No." Thomas said firmly, stepping closer. "We're mad because we're scared. We're scared because we love you. That's not the same as being disappointed. And we never, ever thought about sending you away. You belong here. This is your home."

Finally, Jackson cracked. The tears came faster, his shoulders shaking with the weight of them.

Camila pulled him into her lap like she used to when he was little, and for once, he didn't fight it. He folded into her, clinging with desperation. She rocked him slowly, whispering into his hair, "We're here. We've got you."

And as Jackson cried and clung to the people who had always loved him—even when he couldn't feel it—he finally allowed himself to be what he still was at heart:

Just a boy.

A boy who needed to be held.

A boy who needed to come home.

The hallway was dark as Jackson padded quietly up the stairs. The old house groaned faintly with each step, but he barely registered it. All he wanted now was the comfort of a real bed, the familiar smell of the room he'd grown up in—somewhere that didn't feel like concrete or the backseat of a friend's car.

But he didn't go straight to bed.

Instead, he dropped his backpack beside his dresser and crouched down, unzipping it slowly. Inside, buried beneath rumpled clothes and broken earbuds, was a half-empty bottle of vodka. He pulled it out with practiced fingers, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, silent drink. The alcohol burned down his throat, sharp and punishing. But the edge it dulled inside him—that ache—was worth it.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, screwed the lid back on, and slid the bottle under his bed like it was just another piece of the mess he didn't want anyone to see.

Then he stood, grabbed the towel from his shoulders, and walked to his room.

The shared bedroom was dimly lit by a small lamp on the dresser. Harper sat upright in her bed, back propped against the pillows, a book open in her lap but clearly forgotten. Aura was curled on her side in the bed opposite, but she stirred the moment the door creaked.

"Jackson?" she asked sleepily, blinking in surprise.

He hesitated in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the warm glow. His backpack slid from his shoulder with a soft thump onto the floor. "Yeah." he mumbled, voice gravelly. "It's me."

Aura sat up quickly, the covers falling from her shoulders. "Where the hell have you been?" she asked, the relief in her voice tangled with worry and just the faintest edge of accusation. "Do you know how scared we've all been? You just vanished."

"I don't wanna talk right now." he said, brushing past her and heading to his bed in the far corner of the room. "I just want to sleep. I haven't slept properly in days."

Aura opened her mouth to protest, but Harper held up a hand gently. "Aura..." she said, her voice calm but firm, "let him rest. We'll talk in the morning."

Aura huffed but nodded, watching as Jackson climbed into his bed and pulled the blanket tightly over himself. He turned away from them, facing the wall, the soft sounds of his breaths the only indication that he was still quietly unraveling inside.

Harper closed her book and stood slowly, moving through the room like she had done so many nights before—checking on each of them in turn like a parent might. She gently pulled the covers up to Aura's shoulders, smoothing her hair back from her face. Aura let her, her expression softening.

Then Harper knelt by Jackson's bed, just close enough to see the back of his head, moving her fingers softly through his messed up curls.

"I'm glad you're home, Jacks." she whispered. "You're safe now."

He didn't respond, but his breathing hitched just slightly—like the words had landed somewhere beneath the surface.

Satisfied for now, Harper returned to her bed and clicked off the lamp. The room fell into stillness again, broken only by the sound of three steadying breaths and the quiet shifting of sheets.

For the first time in a while, all three Baldwin siblings were under the same roof, in the same room.

And for one fragile moment—there was peace.

Even if, under Jackson's bed, the bottle still waited—quiet and hidden, like the pain he hadn't figured out how to name.