Page 70 of Jax
“Morning,” I said, quiet and even, not a greeting so much as a probe, but Stella didn’t answer or turn or even blink in my direction.
Maddy froze mid-slurp, spoon halted halfway. Sully peeked from behind the fridge with a low, “Uh-oh,” while Bellamy’s look was sharp enough to close a case. “Okay, so we’re doing this,” she muttered into her mug. Sully leaned toward Maddy and whispered, “Did they bang last night, or did someone die? Blinktwice for emotional trauma.” Maddy didn’t blink. Just watched the tension stretch between us, her mouth pulled tight like she couldn’t decide whether to intervene or stay out of it.
I walked past them without a word, poured half a mug of coffee I didn’t want, my hands steady, my face blank, but inside, every nerve was drawn tight. This wasn’t silence. It was a message. When someone chooses not to speak, it isn’t just quiet; it’s rejection dressed as indifference. She wasn’t avoiding me. She was sending a warning. And she did it perfectly, without a word.
I leaned against the counter, sipping coffee that tasted like ash. The ceramic was warm against my hands, just like her skin had been last night. I hadn’t expected fireworks or a confession, but I thought I might get a glance. A flicker. Something that said she remembered too.
Instead, she rinsed her mug, moved past me without hesitation, without touch, without even a glance. Just motion—clean, silent, surgical. But I felt the cut as she left the room.
“Damn,” Sully muttered as the door swung shut. “And I thought I was the dramatic one.”
Maddy didn’t speak, but her head tilted slowly toward me like she was trying to see through my skin. I kept my eyes on the door, and let the silence stretch.
“Is she okay?” Bellamy asked, voice casual, gaze sharp.
“Yes,” I lied. “She’s just… focused.”
Maddy hummed, unconvinced. “Focused on what? Winning Best Actress in a Role Where She Pretends You Don’t Exist?”
Sully winced. “Ouch.”
I didn’t answer, because Maddy was right, and I didn’t have a clue why. Without another word, I stood and went after her.
Stella walked ahead of me with the kind of posture that passed for neutral unless you knew what to look for. Shoulders square, spine too straight, arms loose but too still. I saw it. Themicro-signals of someone determined not to be seen. The way her steps never wavered from the center of the hallway. The way she didn’t glance back or shift even once. Like I hadn’t kissed her throat or held her through the sound of her own unraveling. Like my hands hadn’t memorized every line of her body or her voice hadn’t broken on my name.
I followed at a deliberate distance, far enough not to crowd her, close enough I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. I didn’t raise my voice or call her back. I just said it once, low and steady, a thread between us. “Stella.”
She didn’t turn. Didn’t pause. Just reached her door, opened it with that same deliberate grace, and shut it behind her with a softness that echoed louder than a slam. That was the tell—not volume, but certainty. That door didn’t close in anger. It closed like a statement.
I stood there another moment, pressing my palm to the wood of her door, not urgent, but intentional. It was smooth and cool, unmoved by contact. I imagined her on the other side, but the quiet didn’t feel shared. It felt sealed. Like she’d vacuum-packed herself inside whatever kept her safe. I wondered if she was leaning against the other side, listening. Or if she’d already left mentally—already halfway to a place I wasn’t invited to follow.
“If you need space,” I said, voice steady, cadence even, “I’ll give it.” I waited. One breath. Then another. No reply. No shift of weight across the floor. Just stillness. “But don’t pretend last night didn’t happen.” I didn’t want promises, just clarity. I needed to believe the version of her who kissed me like she meant it wasn’t some glitch in the dark.
Still nothing. No sound. No movement. Her silence wasn’t passive. It was intentional. She wasn’t hiding. She was extracting. Removing herself from the space we shared withsuch precision, it almost impressed me. If it didn’t already ache beneath my ribs, it might’ve.
Eventually, I dropped my hand and stepped back. The hallway felt longer on the return. I didn’t look back. Just walked. Each step controlled, like I was exiting a scene I’d already cataloged. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t cried. She’d just vanished without moving. And that was the part that cut deepest. It wasn’t rejection. It was erasure. No matter how I ran the math, the answer didn’t change: I wasn’t welcome in her world anymore.
The gym sat at the far end of the basement, past storage, past the game room. Down here, the air changed. Lower ceilings. Rubber floors. No clocks. No windows. Just pressure and control. I didn’t turn the music on. Didn’t need rhythm. I came to bleed. The heavy bag hung from the beam, thick enough to punish if you struck it wrong. I wrapped my hands quickly—tight, automatic—and started swinging. No warmup. No technique. Just a purge. Each hit landed with more force than form. Left. Right. Left-left. Right. A rhythm that vibrated through muscle and bone. There was no outlet. No pause. Just my body trying to scream louder than my mind could whisper.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Carrick came in. I didn’t even notice him at first. He moved like he always did—smooth, quiet, and unassuming. But Carrick’s danger lived in your blind spot. He waited for you to notice.
“Want to talk?” he asked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
I didn’t stop moving. “No.”
“Good. Didn’t want to hear it, anyway.”
The bag absorbed my next hit with a dullwhomp, the sound reverberating through the floor. I could feel my knuckles starting to bruise under the wraps. I didn’t care. That was the point.
He let the silence stretch just long enough for it to settle under my skin.
“At least normally I wouldn’t. But you’re dripping pain all over the floor, brother,” he added, almost conversational, like he was just observing weather patterns, or the rotation of the earth.
I struck the bag once more, then held it, arms braced, breath ragged. My shoulders rose and fell, my heartbeat a metronome somewhere behind my teeth. Sweat rolled down my back, dampening the hem of my shirt. I hadn’t worked out this hard, for this long, in years. Just another piece of data I tucked away, evidence of how much Stella was affecting me.
“I don’t fracture like the rest of you,” I said eventually, my voice rough. “I don’t lose control. I catalog it. Compartmentalize it. Line everything up so the damage is measurable.”
Carrick moved closer, but he didn’t interrupt. Just stood a few feet away, gaze steady, letting me fill the space on my own terms.
