Page 103 of Jax
“That checks out.” I let out a breath, soft and grateful. “Thanks.”
He hesitated, eyes scanning my face, his tone dropping lower. “You good?”
It wasn’t a casual question. It was the kind of ask that came with subtext and weight. A question that measured my stability, not just my safety. It felt like an offering. Like he was trying to shoulder some of what I couldn’t say.
I didn’t deflect. Didn’t throw up a wall of sarcasm. Just nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
His gaze softened, but sharpened too. Like he was committing this version of me to memory. “You looked good in there.”
“Sticky and sleep-deprived?” I arched a brow. “That’s your thing now?”
“No,” he said quietly, and there was something heavier behind it. “Happy.”
That word shouldn’t have made my chest tighten. But it did. I bit the inside of my cheek and looked down, unsure what to do with the ache curling warm and strange in my gut.
“I didn’t expect it either,” I said, because it was the truth.
“I’m glad it found you.”
The honesty in his voice made my breath catch. I looked up, caught in the weight of his stare, the quiet gravity of how he watched me, like I wasn’t some variable to be solved. Like I was the answer.
“So, showing up right after the glitter and vulnerability,” I teased lightly, needing to move the weight before it crushed me. “Is that a kink I should know about?”
His grin spread slow and feral. “Not unless you want it to be.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“Statistically,” he murmured, “that’s only a 47% match.”
And there it was. That Spencer Reid-adjacent nerdery that always landed like a punch and a hug at the same time. I tried to hide my smirk. Failed.
“Next time, I pick the movie, and you and I watch it ourselves.”
He leaned just a little closer, enough that his voice skimmed against the shell of my ear. “Only if it has explosions, and significantly less glitter.”
“Deal.”
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t linger. Just gave me one last glance like he was imprinting me onto something unseen, then turned and walked back down the hallway, barefoot and golden and completely unfair.
I stood there for a moment, hand still on the doorframe, soaking in the hush he left behind. And for once, the quiet didn’t feel like an absence.
It felt like a promise.
24
Jax
She cameto my cabin door the following afternoon like she’d rehearsed it; every word spoken into a mirror, every breath measured against what this night might become. There was no pretense in her posture, no flinch in her gaze. Just a steady resolve, quiet and undeniable, like she already knew nothing about this would be casual.
I opened the door before she could knock. I’d seen her through the window—barefoot on the gravel, spine drawn straight, hands curled like contact might undo her. Her tank top clung to skin still flushed from heat, and she’d come without a jacket, as if whatever she’d finally admitted to herself had burned away every other layer.
The air hung still and dense, not peaceful, but full. She carried that fullness in her body like it was too much for one person to hold, an emotional current that hummed straight through me. She didn’t rush forward. Just stood there, eyes fixed on mine, like she was measuring whether I could meet her with the same openness she’d already given, and maybe hoping I would.
Her voice, when it came, was low and stripped of anything decorative. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About what a dynamic could be. And while we came to a sort of agreement the other night, I have one more ask before I can say yes fully.”
She didn’t fidget, although admitting this obviously made her nervous. She just stood, anchored in place, like she was bracing herself against the storm she knew this could become. Her words landed hard, but it was the weight behind them that undid me. This wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t a performance. It was desire, raw and deliberate.
I didn’t speak. Just tilted my head and let myself breathe. Her jaw flexed with tension. Her skin was flushed high. There was something barely restrained burning under the surface, and for once, she wasn’t hiding it. She wasn’t masking it with sarcasm or distance. She was placing it in my hands.
