29. Domestic as Hell #2
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, staring as if I’ve turned this into his own private show.
I hit the next lyric and drag out the last word with a cocked head and a wicked grin.
Why you trollin’ like a bitch? Ain’t you tired?
Tryna to strike a chord and it’s probably A minor…
To my surprise, he joins in at the end, matching my playful tone perfectly.
I flow through the rest of the song with practiced ease, hitting every note like second nature. By the final line, I’m grinning—breathless, buzzing, the beat thrumming in my chest.
“And that, folks, is how you close a diss track,” I say, flashing a smug smile.
The iron beeps behind me. I spin, pop the lid, and slide the steaming waffle onto a dish. Pat of butter. A drizzle of syrup. A few strawberries for good measure. I grab a fork, carry the plate to Jax, and set it down with a bow. “Breakfast of champions.”
He laughs. “Okay. That was great.”
I smirk as I pour the next round of batter. “Damn right it was.”
He rubs the back of his neck, gaze lingering a moment too long. “Didn’t have you pegged as a Kendrick fan.”
“You can’t be this badass and not have great taste in music.”
He leans forward, lacing his fingers on the table. He studies me like I’m a puzzle. “I can’t tell if I should be impressed or concerned that you know every word to that song.”
“Why choose?” I laugh.
He chuckles, and for a fraction of a second, something soft flickers in his eyes. A look that doesn’t belong to Jax the smartass, but to Jax the man who carries too much.
I ignore it. Because Jax is Jax. And Matt’s coming home. He has to. The alternative is unthinkable.
Still, having Jax around—annoying the shit out of me every day—is starting to crack the walls I’ve built since finding out Darren is back.
Sometimes he looks at me, and I wonder if he feels more.
But I can’t go there. I need the easy camaraderie, the distraction.
Being stuck in the house while Matt is gone is making me stir-crazy. Jax keeps me sane.
The flirty banter is harmless, part of our dynamic. I’m not blind—Jax is hot as hell. But I love Matt.
He won’t be happy about how close we’ve gotten, but I’ll make him understand. Jax is just a buddy, like Bishop or Steele. Even if sometimes my heart forgets the rules.
***
We finish breakfast and head out for school drop-off. The kids are in the backseat, bickering about something silly—probably who ate the last waffle or who cheated at Uno last night.
“Hey,” Jax drawls, shooting a mock-stern glance in the rearview mirror. “Don’t make me pull this car over.”
He hams it up—arched brows, exaggerated grip on the wheel, full dad voice activated.
Harper freezes long enough to sell the bit, then shakes her head. “Yeah, that only works when Mom says it.”
Spencer leans in with perfect timing, deadpan. “Nice try, Jax. But you’re not scary.”
He snorts. “I’ll remember that next time you want extra syrup, Short Stack.”
We all laugh, and the tension that’s been sitting in my chest eases slightly.
When we pull back into the driveway, I turn to him. “Alright, soldier, what’s on the agenda today?”
He shoots me a look. “First of all, it’s sailor, not soldier. I was Navy, sweetheart.”
“SEAL, right?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a lazy grin, pushing his sunglasses up. “I don’t know… I kinda wanted to watch you dance around the kitchen some more.”
I roll my eyes as I follow him into the house. “Well, I could show you some videos.”
His face scrunches in confusion. “Videos?”
“I was a dancer.”
His expression shifts into a look far too suggestive.
“Ballet,” I clarify, drawing out each syllable with a disapproving glare.
His grin widens. “That’s disappointing.”
I smack his arm. “Careful, sailor. Mason will kick your ass… again.”
He goes still for a beat, smile fading. “I deserved that beat-down,” he utters, tone low. “If anything had happened to you or the kids…”
“Hey,” I say gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I was only teasing. We’re okay. Really.”
He exhales, eyes on the ground. “No thanks to me.”
I nudge him. “Giving ourselves grace, remember?”
“You’re better at giving grace than I am.”
Then he glances at me sideways, the spark returning. “For the record… I held my own in that fight.”
I shoot him a challenging smirk. “Sure you did, tough guy. For someone asleep on the job.”
He clutches his chest like I just shot him. “Ouch.”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “And for the record… Matt was limping for three days afterwards.”
His brow lifts, clearly impressed.
“But if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll deny it—and cut your balls off,” I warn, all sugar and threat.
My smile softens. “Seriously, you’ve more than made up for it. I forgive you. Now you need to forgive yourself.”
His gaze shifts, caught between disbelief and something rawer.
I let my hand drift up, enough to graze his jaw. His stubble is rough under my fingertips—grounding. He doesn’t pull away, staring at me as if he’s afraid to look anywhere else.
“Jax,” I murmur.
He breathes out through his nose, shaking it off. “So… ballet, huh?”
“That surprise you?”
“A little,” he chuckles. “Figured you for a cheerleader.”
I snort. “Please. I studied ballet fourteen years.”
His eyes widen. “Fourteen?”
“Mm-hmm.” I soften at the memory. “I trained nonstop—tap, jazz, modern, even swing and clogging. But ballet and tap were home. It came naturally, like a gift.”
A faint smile tugs at me. “Juilliard was the dream. I wanted it more than anything.”
“What happened?” His voice is gentle.
I shrug. “Got pregnant with Declan.”
He doesn’t rush in. Just studies me before asking, “You ever think about getting into it again?”
The question hits deeper than I expect.
“I’d love to,” I admit, half-smiling. “But… three kids later.”
“Still,” he says, tilting his head, “the way you move—you can tell it’s in you.”
Before I can respond, he catches my arm and spins me through the living room with ridiculous flair. “C’mon, show me what you’ve got!”
I groan. “Ballet, idiot. Not ballroom.”
Shoving him off playfully, I send him stumbling with a laugh.
“Careful, ballerina,” he teases, “I might just steal a dance and never give you back.”
His grin lingers, but behind it, something thoughtful flickers. The air stills, stretching wide, until he clears his throat. “Anyway… you working today?”
“Yeah.” I stretch, smile spreading. “Meeting at noon, a few projects to finish… but until then, I’m all yours.”
“Okay.” He stretches like he has the whole day. “Guess it’s time I kick your ass at Scrabble.”
“You cheat.”
“Excuse you—Qi is a word.” He shoots back, mock-offended.
“That is not a real word.”
“Triple-word score, baby. Don’t hate the player.”
I shake my head. “Oh, you’re going down.”
“We’ll see about that.” He declares, cracking his knuckles.
***
Day 16 — Without Matt
I make baked ziti for dinner—nothing fancy, but it hits the spot. The house still smells like garlic and toasted breadcrumbs, and for once, nobody complains. Harper goes back for seconds, Spencer licks his plate, and Jax insists on doing the dishes, claiming it’s the least he can do.
I let him. Watching him at the sink, sleeves pushed up, humming along to Harper’s playlist, is more distracting than it should be. Saying no would mean finding something else to look at—something that isn’t his forearms or that quiet, unintentional charm he tosses around.
Once the kitchen’s clean, the kids scatter, and I settle at the island with my laptop. A frustrated groan breaks the quiet.
Spencer.
He’s slumped at the dining table, math book open, pencil tapping aggressively against the page.
“Everything okay over there, bud?”
“No,” he huffs. “I don’t get this.”
Before I can stand, Jax beats me to it, pushing off the counter and strolling over as if he’s done it a hundred times.
“What are we working on, kiddo?”
“Fractions.”
“Oof.” He drops into the chair beside him. “Those are the worst. Ever think about just… not doing them?”
I shoot him a look.
He lifts his hands. “Kidding.” Then he leans in, scanning the worksheet. “Alright, show me where you’re stuck.”
Spencer shoves the book toward him. “I can’t figure out how to simplify. I know what fractions are, but how do you know what number to divide by?”
Jax drums his fingers. “Okay, think of it like this. Say you’ve got a pizza—”
Spencer perks up.
“You cut it into eight slices, but your mom says you can only have four—”
“That would never happen,” Spencer interrupts.
I smirk. “Try me.”
Jax chuckles. “Fair enough. But if you’ve got four out of eight, what’s another way to say that?”
Spencer frowns. “…Half?”
“Exactly—four out of eight is the same as one out of two. You divide by the same number. Simplifying fractions is just finding the easiest way to say it.”
Spencer studies the page, then slowly starts working the problems.
I cross my arms, eyebrow raised. “Where was this enthusiasm when I was helping you last week?”
“It makes more sense when he explains it.”
Jax smirks over his shoulder. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m naturally gifted.”
I roll my eyes as soft guitar chords drift in from the living room. Harper’s curled on the couch, barefoot, strumming as if she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
Jax tilts his head toward the sound, curiosity flickering in his gaze.
“She’s good,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” My voice softens. “There’s nothing she isn’t good at.”
Harper looks up. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jax says casually. “Didn’t peg you for a musician.”
She shrugs. “I just picked up guitar, but I’ve been singing since I was little.”
“What song is that?” he asks.
Harper smirks. “Guess.”
He stares, listening. Then his brows shoot up. “Wait—is that Shawn Mendes?”
Her blink is almost comical. “Yeah.”
A slow grin spreads across his features. “Solid taste.”
I snort. “High praise from someone who only listens to angry white-boy rock.”
Unrepentant, he shrugs. “Classics are classics.”
Before she can respond, my cell buzzes on the coffee table.
Declan.