Page 32 of Jax
Jax
Statistically speaking,repetitive motion is a self-soothing behavior, common in mammals, predictable in trauma responses, and usually unconscious. The average person paces at 112 steps per minute. She was clocking 137.
Barefoot and disheveled, she paced in a restless geometry, the kind that made the air crackle. Her hoodie slipped off one shoulder, exposing a stretch of skin that read more like unfinished math than flirtation. Hair clung to her cheek, a mess of static and unraveling order. It wasn’t chaos. It was compression, a system pushed too far.
I leaned against the counter, coffee cooling in my hand, and let her movements brand themselves into my memory. Every step, twitch, and breath spoke of effort. This wasn’t fidgeting. It was survival.
She flipped a page in her notebook with too much force and muttered something under her breath, half math, half madness. Maddy glanced up, voice soft but edged with curiosity. “You okay?”
Stella didn’t look up. “No.”
She turned another page, fists clenched. “I need something to do before I crawl out of my skin.”
Maddy blinked, thrown. She opened her mouth, but Stella kept moving, voice rising.
“Not yoga. Not deep breathing. Not painting myfuckingnails.” She held up the notebook, a mess of scratchy diagrams and frantic numbers. “Something real. With my hands.”
Sully walked in just in time to hear it, sipping some green horror of a shake he swore was banana-flavored. He paused, cocking his head. “What kind of real are we talking about?”
Stella didn’t even flinch.
“Do you have any welding equipment?”
The whole room went still, as if someone had sucked the air out of it.
Maddy’s brows went up. Sully actually lowered his drink.
“Actually…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. Old stick welding unit in the workshop. No clue if it still runs, and the rods are all pretty old, but it’s there.”
And that’s when I saw it.
The first real shift in her. The kind that didn’t scream or snap. It settled instead. Quiet and deliberate. Her hands steadied. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. That pulse of frantic energy finally found something to latch onto.
And fuck if it didn’t do something to me.
It wasn’t the welding. It was the way she looked at the world in that moment. Like she remembered there was still a version of herself worth reaching for.
I set my coffee down before I could think better of it. My voice was low, instinctual. “I’ll take her.”
Maddy turned to me, surprise flickering behind her eyes. “You sure?”
I didn’t answer. Just nodded and moved for the hall, the decision already made, somewhere deeper than reason. I didn’tknow why I cared. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just wanted to see what she built when no one was watching.
“You want to weld?” I asked, holding the door and glancing back. Her blink was quick, like she hadn’t expected me to let her out of the house, but her nod followed instantly, sharp with intent.
I let the corner of my mouth twitch, more reflex than smile. Just a signal. A truce. Maybe a dare.
“Come on.”
The workshop door groaned open, resisting as if it hadn’t been used in weeks. The air inside hit thick—oil, steel, sawdust, and heat baked into concrete. Dry and metallic. The kind of scent that sank into your skin and stayed.
Overhead, the long fluorescent strips flickered on one by one, casting a wash of sterile light over the room. It was bigger than it looked from outside—high ceilings, pegboards sagging with rusted clamps and power tools, shelves cluttered with coiled cords and forgotten boxes. In the back, an old Chevelle sat in stasis—hood gaping, bumper missing, a socket wrench balanced on the frame like someone walked off mid-thought. We hadn’t accepted new work in a few weeks, so most of the space sat empty.
She stepped in and stalled, scanning the room like she was logging a crime scene. I didn’t speak. Just made my way to the breaker that powered the outlet that the welder was plugged into and flipped it. The stick welder gave a grunt and began to hum, and a red light blinked to life.
“It’s a stick unit, like Sully said.” I said. “She’s not pretty, but she works as far as I know.”
Stella drifted past me like she didn’t hear, like her body had already chosen. She stopped at the machine, head tilted, fingers skimming the edges with a kind of reverence. Her voice was amurmur. “I prefer TIG. Cleaner welds.” She tapped a dial. “But this’ll do.”
