Page 65 of Jax
“You did,” I said. “You took it back the moment you said red.”
We stayed like that in a silence deeper than comfort. Not empty, not cold. Just sacred. And in that hush, something unspoken found root. A fragile thread of trust, not tied by contact, but nurtured in the absence of it. A permission given not through words, but through the restraint of silence.
Because some wounds don’t want fixing. Some just need to be seen. And some truths, when finally witnessed, only ask for one thing. That when they show themselves, they’re not left alone.
15
Stella
Some kindsof silence aren’t empty. They’re aftermath. The sound the soul makes when it finally exhales. That was the silence I sat in now, arms wrapped tight around my knees, forehead pressed there like it could anchor me to the present. The rope was gone, but its echo remained, traced in heat and memory. Not pain. Not regret. Just the quiet memory of when strangers had used rope as a threat, and how that had overwhelmed the peace that Jax had offered.
The mat was colder without the jute, but the world wasn’t. Not with him beside me. Jax didn’t speak at first. His voice, when it came, was low and reverent, threaded with something more sacred than comfort. “Do you want touch?”
I hesitated. The word itself—touch—had lived so long in a drawer labeled dangerous, it felt strange to pull it out and hold it again. But I didn’t want to be alone in this quiet, untouched by him, untouched by safety.
“A little, maybe. Yeah. Just... slow,” I said, my voice splintering down the middle.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t fold the space between us like a hero eager to rescue. He simply stood in that hush, steady andsilent, letting me make the choice. It started with the blanket he draped across my shoulders with something that felt almost like worship.
Then came his hand, offered palm-up. No pressure. When I gave him mine, he didn’t squeeze. He held it gently, thumb tracing slow, thoughtful arcs over my knuckles, like a quiet anchoring meant to keep me tethered to now. No urgency. No expectation. Just the rhythm of safety asking me to stay.
We sat like that in silence, his hand a steady pulse in mine. And after a while, I nodded—small, tentative, but real. A quiet agreement between two people who understood what could not yet be said.
Eventually, the ache found me again, the crash that always followed adrenaline. Muscles trained for tension now struggled to understand rest. I shifted, exhaled, and whispered, “Can we go somewhere softer?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, of course. Come on.”
He didn’t lift me. Didn’t lead. Just offered his hand like a thread through the dark. I took it. And something in the simplicity of that undid me. He rose first, unhurried, intentional. Then, he helped me to my feet carefully. His palm rested lightly at the center of my back once more, not a push or a guide, just grounding me.
I followed him across the hall into a room I hadn’t entered before. His room. It felt like him—understated, calm, unassuming. A lamp cast a low amber wash over neutral sheets and folded clothes. A glass of water sat waiting on the nightstand, untouched but expectant.
He paused, letting me step in first, then hovered near the threshold, asking with posture what his voice put softly into shape. “Is this acceptable?”
I nodded, finding breath. “Yeah. It’s… good.”
He turned down the sheets without ceremony, then stood back, offering without assumption. I sat, legs unsteady but not unwilling. The room felt safe. Safer maybe than anywhere else in the house. Like a space where nothing had to be earned or explained.
He handed me the glass. Our fingers touched. I didn’t pull away. I drank, paused, and murmured, “You don’t ask a lot of questions.”
Jax tilted his head, thoughtful and precise. “I don’t need answers to give care.”
My heart twisted at that. “But don’t you want them?”
His voice was soft, but steady. “Trust me, I have an entire mental binder labeled ‘questions for Stella’. But I don’t need the answers. Not unless you want to give them.”
The glass trembled slightly in my hands. I set it bacQuestionsk down.
He didn’t join me on the bed. He sat beside it, back resting against the frame, arms loose over his knees. He didn’t speak. Didn’t pry. Just breathed in the same space as me like it was enough.
And eventually it was.
“I didn’t mean to shut down like that,” I whispered, and for the first time, the words didn’t sound like failure.
“You didn’t shut down,” he said gently. “You called red. That’s not the same thing.”
I nodded. “It wasn’t the rope.”
He looked up at me, gaze steady but open. “Okay.”
