Page 93 of Jax
“Good girl.”
She laughed softly, raw and dazed, the sound more breath than voice. Her fingers twitched like they needed something to hold. I offered mine. She took them.
“Okay to sit up?” I asked, and she nodded. I wrapped an arm around her back and helped her shift, guiding her up slowly, holding her steady when her muscles gave out. She slumped against me without protest, her body weightless in the aftermath.
I kissed her temple. “Stay here.”
I stood, grabbed the water, cracked the seal, and knelt again in front of her. She blinked as I lifted it to her mouth.
“Sip.”
She drank slowly. Her throat moved. Her skin still radiated heat. I brushed her hair back and asked softly, “You with me?”
Another sip. Another breath. Then a whispered reply that melted through my bones.
“Yeah. Just… everything’s soft around the edges.”
I smiled. “That’s subspace. Or at least the edge of it.”
Her brow furrowed faintly. “Feels like… grief and safety had a baby. And it’s humming under my skin.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “That tracks.”
I gave her another sip before setting the bottle down.
“You only tore one ring, and you never asked me to take the rope off,” I murmured, fingertips brushing the spot on her thigh where it had clung. “You could’ve. Any time.”
Her laugh came out thinner now, like something frayed. “Thought about it once. When you started talking.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “You said ‘stronger than steel,’ and it almost undid me. I don’t… I don’t think anyone’s ever called me strong without meaning it like a complimentora burden.”
My throat tightened.
“You are,” I said, quietly. “You’re made of the kind of steel that bends just enough to survive the fire.”
She looked up at me, something open and wary and shining behind her lashes. “That’s poetic, for a guy who knows how to dislocate a shoulder with two fingers.”
I grinned. “Multifaceted.”
She rolled her eyes. But she didn’t let go of my hand.
“Come with me?” I asked, voice low, pitched to meet her gently in the quiet where she floated.
“To where?”
I nodded toward the bathroom. “To the bathroom. I’ll run some water. You need heat, hydration, and gravity. The crash is coming, and I’d rather catch you somewhere soft.”
She looked down, gaze catching on the faint red marks around her wrists, those soft, fading indentations left by rope tied with just enough tension to leave reminders. Her voice came, quiet and edged with doubt. “You’re not gonna get in with me, are you?”
“No, baby,” I said gently. “I’ll be close. But not touching, unless you ask.”
Something in her shifted then. A soft internal exhale. That promise of space, of held consent even in the gentleness after, eased something more than just muscle.
“Okay,” she whispered.
I helped her stand, one arm steady around her waist while her legs recalibrated. She leaned into me without hesitation, her trust unspoken but total. We moved slowly toward the bathroom, and soon steam was clouding the mirror, the air warm with lavender and quiet intention. Everything came together quickly—heat and scent and silence arranged to hold her where words wouldn’t reach.
