Page 74 of Jax
Because it meant I hadn’t died with her. Some part of me still craved pleasure, still reached for connection, still ached to feel anything but terror. And what kind of sister did that make me?
I squeezed my eyes shut, Jax’s voice rising in my memory—You asked for this—spoken like a promise, like he knew I was still learning how to believe I was allowed to want anything at all. In that moment, I had needed him. The weight of his body. The rope at my wrists. His voice in my ear. I needed the way he didn’t flinch when I unraveled. How he didn’t fix it, just held it. Like the breaking wasn’t failure. It was sacred.
And that made it even worse. Because I hadn’t used him for escape. I’d let him in. I let him matter. And I couldn’t afford that, while Violet was gone.
The air felt thinner, like it had been filtered through grief and left sterile. I sat up slowly, hoodie clinging like a baggysecond skin, soaked in days of sweat and shame. My ribs ached. My jaw ached. My throat burned like I’d swallowed rust.
I hadn’t cried. Not because I was strong, but because I didn’t think I deserved the relief.
The knock came like a ghost—soft, uncertain, and barely audible. Just two dull taps against the wood, the kind made by someone already bracing to be ignored. I didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. My first instinct was to curl tighter, vanish deeper into the tangle of sheets and borrowed fabric, pretend I hadn’t heard it at all.
Then came the second sound—quieter, somehow heavier. The creak of the door, slow and deliberate. I didn’t look. Just gritted my teeth and waited, every muscle pulled tight, like the presence of another person might rupture whatever fragile balance I’d clawed together. I was ready to snap. To bite. To drive them off with one look if I had to.
But when I turned my head, it was Sully.
And the fight drained out of me before it could rise.
He stood just inside the doorway, broad shoulders haloed in warm amber light, holding a plate in one hand and a too-small mug in the other. He looked impossibly gentle for someone built like a linebacker, like a man who’d learned to take up space without making the room feel smaller. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just stepped inside like he was delivering something sacred.
His boots moved quietly as breath across the floor. He crossed to the dresser and set the plate down with such care it felt ceremonial. Pancakes. I could smell them—warm, soft, sweet. The coffee was pale with too much milk, served in a cartoonish mug that had no business in a house full of ghosts.
He didn’t sit on the bed, or hover. Just lowered himself to the floor, slow and steady, back against the wall, legs stretchedout like he was totally comfortable. Like he knew better than to pretend closeness was something I wanted.
He didn’t speak at first. Just exhaled, eyes scanning the room like the silence might explain something I couldn’t say. Then, finally, his voice broke through, low and gentle, like he didn’t want to scare off whatever pieces of me were still holding together. “I’m not gonna ask you what’s wrong. That’d be stupid.”
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him—sweatpants, hoodie, a few days of stubble, and that same quiet patience he always wore like armor. He didn’t flinch when I met his gaze. Didn’t shift or try to fill the space. Just waited.
“But I brought pancakes,” he added, after a moment. “And they’re the real kind. Not protein powder and false hope.”
I almost smiled, which pissed me off.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, voice scratchy, throat tight.
He didn’t look surprised. “Didn’t think you were.”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “So why bring them?”
He tilted his head and offered the smallest shrug. “Because you’re not okay, either. And eating’s easier than talking.”
I didn’t want to admit he was right. I didn’t want to admit I was starving.
The silence stretched between us again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was… precise. Measured. Like he was giving me room to exist without expectation. I shifted, finally, pushing up to sit against the headboard, legs pulled to my chest, blanket bunched around my waist. I didn’t reach for the food, but I didn’t tell him to leave either. That had to count for something.
“Want to talk?” he asked after a while, not looking at me when he said it.
“No,” I said honestly. “Not to you.”
He nodded without offense. “Fair. Want me to talk?”
I hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Sure. Better than my own thoughts.”
He didn’t launch into something heavy. Didn’t try to distract me with drama or jokes. He told me about his morning, how Deacon nearly blew up the espresso machine again, how Niko still alphabetized the spice rack like a serial killer, how Carrick took one look at the weather report and declared it was a tactical crime not to grill tonight.
He talked like life was still happening out there. Like the world hadn’t stopped spinning just because mine had. And for some fucked up reason, I let him. I let the sound of his voice pull me out, inch by inch, breath by breath, like he was hauling me to shore without ever touching the water.
By the time he paused, the plate was nearly empty.
I hadn’t even noticed.
