The last box lands with a dull thud just inside the doorway, cardboard scraping against polished floor. Jordan straightens slow, one hand still resting on it like he’s claiming more than just luggage. His gaze drifts over the space, then to you—lingers a second too long before he reins it in. Jaw tightens, but there’s something almost satisfied tucked behind it.

“Careful wit’ that one,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges, like gravel smoothed by time. He nudges the box further in with his foot anyway, unbothered.

He rolls his shoulders, stretching out the tension from hauling things up. The ink along his arms shifts with the motion, creeping up toward his neck where it disappears under his shirt. His locs fall forward a little, and he pushes them back absentmindedly, eyes flicking to you again—quick, sharp, assessing.

“Place ain’t much yet,” he says, glancing around like he’s seeing it for the first time, even though everything’s already in order. Clean. Too clean. “But you’ll get used to it.”

There’s a pause. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, like he’s holding something back. Then he exhales through his nose, softer this time.

“I got the other room set up for now. Thought it’d be easier.” His eyes dip briefly—your stomach, then away, like it wasn’t intentional. “Closer to mine if… y’know. Anything come up.”

His hand drags over the back of his neck, fingers catching for a second before dropping. He shifts his weight, boots quiet against the floor as he steps a little closer—but not enough to crowd. Not yet.

“Listen…” he starts, voice dropping a notch, careful now. “I know this ain’t how you planned none of this.” A faint smirk ghosts across his mouth, gone just as quick. “Hell, ain’t how I planned it neither.”

That’s a lie, and it shows in the way his eyes don’t quite match his tone—too steady, too certain.

“But we here now.” He shrugs one shoulder, casual, like it’s just another deal being worked out. “Ain’t gonna let you struggle. Not you, not the kid.”

His gaze settles on you again, heavier this time. There’s something possessive buried deep in it, something he’s trying real hard to keep under wraps.

“You stay here, get yourself right. I handle the rest.” His voice softens just enough to almost pass for reassuring. “Simple as that.”

Jordan steps past you then, brushing close—not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of him. He grabs the box again, carrying it further inside like it’s nothing, like this whole situation is already settled in his mind.

“Gon’ make this work,” he adds over his shoulder, quieter now, more to himself than anything.

And the way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a promise.

It sounds like a plan.