The fire had burned down to a sullen glow, coals throbbing red beneath a crust of gray ash. Night pressed in close, thick with the scent of pine smoke, wet leaves, and the faint iron tang of gunpowder that still clung to their clothes. Every breath tasted of the forest and of fear that hadn't fully left their lungs.
Elisa sat on the cold ground, back against a moss-slick log, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling—not from the chill, but from the memory of gunfire cracking through the trees, of watching Jack sprint through the chaos with a small body clutched against him. The child's voice still echoed in her skull: Father. Father. Please don't leave me.
She couldn't look at Jack. He was only a few paces away, crouched by the fire, feeding it thin branches that snapped and hissed. The orange light painted harsh lines on his face—dirt streaked across his cheekbone, a thin cut above his eyebrow still oozing a dark bead of blood. He hadn't cleaned it. He hadn't looked at her once since they'd stopped running.
Aurora sat a little apart, rocking the boy—Timmy—in her arms. He'd finally cried himself to sleep, his small fist still tangled in the fabric of Jack's jacket that she'd wrapped around him. His breathing was shallow, hitched with leftover sobs.
Elisa's chest felt raw, scraped hollow. The jealousy had come so fast it frightened her—hot, blinding, shameful. In the middle of the ambush, when everything was noise and terror, hearing that word from the child's mouth had felt like a blade sliding between her ribs. Father. A whole secret life Jack had never shared. A woman somewhere. A son.
She hated herself for it. But the feeling wouldn't loosen its grip.
Finally, she couldn't stand the silence anymore.
"Why did he call you that?" Her voice came out rough, scraped thin.
Jack froze. A branch slipped from his fingers and fell into the coals with a soft whump, sending up a brief flare of flame. When he turned, his eyes were wide, reflecting the fire like shattered glass.
"Elisa…"
"He kept saying it," she pressed, hating how small she sounded. "Clinging to you. Father. Like he knew you."
Jack rose slowly, wiping his hands on his pants. The cut on his forehead caught the light again, fresh blood welling. He didn't seem to notice. He took one step toward her, then stopped, as if afraid she'd bolt.
"It wasn't—" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "I told him to say it."
The words hung in the cold air.
Elisa blinked. "What?"
"During the ambush." Jack's shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly exhausted, like the last of his strength had drained out with the confession. "He was frozen in the open. Bullets everywhere. I grabbed him and… I didn't know how to make him hold on tight enough to run with me. So I yelled, 'Pretend I'm your dad—just hold on and don't let go.' I thought if he believed I was his father for thirty seconds, he'd trust me enough to survive."
His voice broke on the last word. He looked down at his boots, jaw working.
Elisa felt the ground tilt beneath her. The jealousy didn't vanish—it shattered, leaving jagged pieces that cut deeper on the way out. Shame flooded in, hot and suffocating. She'd doubted him. In the worst moment. After everything they'd been through.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until sparks bloomed behind her lids. "Oh God."
Jack dropped to his knees in front of her, close enough that she could smell the smoke in his hair, the sweat on his skin, the faint metallic scent of blood. His hands hovered, wanting to touch her but not daring.
"I didn't think," he whispered. "I didn't know it would hurt you like that. I'm sorry."
Aurora's voice came quietly from the shadows. "You should call Steve."
Jack glanced at her, confused.
"He's been trying to reach you for hours," Aurora said. Her own eyes were red, face streaked with dirt and tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away. "Seventeen missed calls. He saw everything on the drone feed. Thought he'd lost you both." Her voice trembled. "He was… destroyed."
Elisa's stomach lurched. Steve—the man who'd pulled her out of the wreckage of her old life, who'd taught her how to breathe again after the world ended. The closest thing to family any of them had left.
Her fingers shook as she pulled the satellite phone from her pack. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. Jack moved closer, settling beside her on the cold ground, his shoulder brushing hers—a silent question. She leaned into him without thinking.
Steve answered on the first ring.
"Elisa?" His voice was raw, like he'd been shouting into the void for hours.
The sound of it broke her open.
"I'm sorry," she choked out. Tears came sudden and fierce, burning tracks down her cold cheeks. "I saw the kid calling him Father and I thought—Jack had a son, a whole life he never told me about. I was so scared and I turned it into something ugly and I doubted him and—"
A broken sound escaped her, half-sob, half-laugh at her own stupidity.
Steve was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Sweetheart. I watched the feed. I saw Jack throw his body over that boy like he was shielding his own heart. I knew exactly what he was doing." His voice cracked. "But hearing your voice right now? That's the only thing that's mattered since the shooting started."
Jack leaned in, cheek against her hair, rough with stubble and dirt. "We're coming home, Steve."
A wet, relieved laugh crackled through the speaker. "Damn right you are. I've got the coffee on. And the whiskey. The good stuff—the bottle we said we'd open when this shit was finally over."
Elisa managed a watery smile. "Save some for us."
"Always," Steve said softly. "Now get your asses back here before I come find you myself."
The call ended. The forest sounds rushed back in—crickets, wind in the pines, the soft pop of settling embers.
Jack's arms came around her slowly, carefully, like she might shatter. She didn't. She turned into him instead, burying her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—smoke, sweat, blood, and something uniquely Jack that had become her definition of safe.
"I'm sorry," she whispered against his skin.
His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her tangled hair. "I know. It's okay."
A long silence settled, broken only by the night.
Then Jack spoke again, voice low. "There's one more thing."
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
"I didn't make it up on the spot," he said. "Steve pulled me aside before we crossed into this zone. Told me, 'If things go bad and a kid's involved, be ready. Kids trust fathers. They'll hold tighter if they think you're theirs.' He made me rehearse it in my head the whole way here. 'Make him believe it just long enough to get him out.'"
Elisa's breath caught.
"I hated the idea," Jack continued. "Felt wrong. But Steve's seen more lost kids than I have. He said, 'First we save the life. Then we clarify everything else.'" Jack's eyes glistened. "He was right about saving Timmy. I just… didn't realize how much it would cost you."
Elisa glanced at the sleeping boy in Aurora's arms, then back to Jack. Her fingers tightened around his.
"You were trying to fool a terrified child into surviving," she said quietly. "Not me."
"Never you," Jack whispered.
Aurora looked up then, her lullaby fading. A small, tired smile touched her lips. "Steve always thinks three steps ahead. Even when it breaks his own heart."
Elisa rested her head against Jack's shoulder again, the weight familiar and grounding. "Tell him thank you for me. For the kid. For us."
Jack pressed his lips to her temple, tasting salt and smoke. "First thing when we get home."
The fire settled into dull ash. Dawn was still hours away, but the night no longer felt quite so heavy. In the quiet, with Timmy's soft breathing and Aurora's gentle humming, they held on—four survivors stitched together by trust that had been tested, strained, and somehow made stronger in the ashes of doubt.