Page 94 of Jax
“I can manage from here,” she murmured when we reached the edge of the tub, one hand braced on the tile as she glanced back.
I nodded. No extra reassurance was needed. “I’ll be just outside. Call if you need me.”
She stepped in, lowering herself with a breath that cracked something open in my chest. Like her body didn’t know how to accept comfort yet, but was trying. Learning.
And me?
I sank to the floor outside the door, back against the wall, knees pulled in, listening to the soft sounds of water and the slow return of her breath. Not because she needed me there. Not because I didn’t trust her alone. But because I wanted to be near her. Because her stillness changed the air. Because something about the way she softened made me want to stay.
22
Jax
I stayedoutside that door longer than I meant to, after the water stilled and her breathing softened. It wasn’t about watching her. She didn’t need guarding. But the air still held the essence of her, and I wasn’t ready to let go of that. She made me want to stay. That was the difference.
When I finally helped her back to my room, the air was quiet and warm, pulsing with something slower than urgency but heavier than calm. My footsteps didn’t echo. They just landed, like I did, barefoot, bare-chested, stripped of all edge. No armor. No performance. Just me.
Now, she lay on her side under the covers, cheek to the pillow, damp hair tangled at her temple. Lamplight cut soft lines across her shoulder and waist, highlighting the faint twitch of her toes beneath the blanket. She looked like someone who’d made it through a storm but hadn’t stopped listening for thunder. But most of all, she was still here.
That hit harder than I expected. She hadn’t left. Not because she owed me. Not because I’d asked. But because shechoseto stay.
I sat at the edge of the bed, slow, deliberate. The cotton of my pants pulled tight across my thighs, but I barely felt it. My focus stayed on her breath—unsteady, but learning. I set my hand on her back, splaying my fingers gently. Just contact. Just warmth. Her skin radiated it. Her ribs rose and fell beneath my palm. Her muscles held tension she hadn’t fully released.
I breathed with her, syncing slowly. A quiet recalibration. A metronome she could borrow from until her own rhythm came back. My thumb moved in lazy circles along her spine—instinct, not decision. A grounding loop. For her. For me. For the space between us, stripped of titles, free from performance. Just breath and skin and silence after something seismic.
She shifted. Slight at first. Then more. Her thigh brushed mine, warm and damp beneath the blanket, and not by accident. She didn’t freeze. Didn’t pull back. Just touched. Just stayed. And I didn’t move.
That contact didn’t ask. Didn’t apologize. It just said, I’m here, and I’m not afraid of this anymore.
The moment stretched, and in the stretch was something sacred. I looked down at her and let my voice speak soft and low. “Still with me?”
A pause. Not hesitation, just her making sure. Then her voice, hoarse and unguarded. “Still with you.” A breath later, quieter, “I didn’t run.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t speak. Didn’t say how much that meant. I kept my hand steady, tracing slow arcs along skin that had only just learned I could be trusted.
She turned toward me with careful control, like her bones remembered caution, even if her heart didn’t. The blanket slipped, revealing one flushed breast, her shoulder, the curve of her collarbone still kissed with heat. Her eyes found mine, not wide, not panicked, but narrowed. Testing. Like someone looking through a door they hadn’t yet walked through.
Her hand slid beneath the covers and found my thigh. She rested it there—palm down, fingers easy. Not possessive. Not pleading. Just contact. A moment that didn’t ask for more, but wasn’t finished yet. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. Just let it land.
“I’m happy you didn’t run.” I replied finally.
“It felt like a win,” she murmured. “But it still scared the hell out of me.”
Her voice was sandpaper-soft. Worn but not broken. I reached up and smoothed her damp hair behind her ear, fingers dragging along the shell of it, then along her jaw. “It scared you,” I said, “because it mattered.”
She blinked, slow. Like she wasn’t sure whether to absorb that or dodge it. “You didn’t shut down either,” she said eventually. “You stayed too.”
“That’s the whole damn point.” And it was. The point of all of it. Not rope or rituals or rules. Not yet. Just the act of staying. Of being the man she could break next to without fearing I’d scatter the pieces, or walk away.
Her exhale came sharp, nostrils flaring, fingers flexing gently on my thigh. It wasn’t conscious, but I felt it like heat under skin. My hand slid from her jaw to her collarbone, palm settling over the warm center of her chest without dipping lower. Just resting there. Heat to heat. Contact without demand.
Then, under the blanket, her nipple peaked against the fabric. A reaction to nearness. To safety. To being seen and not flinching under it. She noticed. I noticed. Neither of us spoke.
“Still aroused?” I asked.
Her throat bobbed before she nodded. “A little.”
“Good.” I let my voice drop. “That’s your body remembering what safety feels like. Let it.”
