29. Domestic as Hell #3
I prop my phone against the saltshaker as the FaceTime call connects. Declan’s face fills the screen—hair damp, eyes tired but bright.
“Hey, Mom,” he says. “Hey, Harp. Hey, Spence. Hey… random bodyguard number four.”
Jax scoffs. “Excuse you, I’m the best bodyguard.”
Declan smirks. “Right, my bad. I should’ve said, ‘Hey, Mason’s emotional support headache.’”
Harper cracks up, wandering into the kitchen. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Declan fires back, stretching. “Anyway…”
I lean forward. “So? Casting?”
His smile splits wide. “Marius.”
My heart stutters. “No fucking way.”
“Yup. Singing Empty Chairs and everything.”
Harper groans. “Not that one again. I thought we were done being emotionally gutted every time you open your mouth.”
“Back in the rotation. Prepare to cry.”
Jax squints at the screen. “That’s the one where Eddie Redmayne sobs into a candle and wrecks everyone’s night, right?”
Declan chuckles. “So, you’ve seen the movie. Yeah. It’s for our summer showcase. Full production every year—capstone before break. Les Mis is a beast. Rehearsals are already chaos. The best kind.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “All that screaming in French.”
Declan gasps, hand to chest. “That’s called passion, little sister.”
She deadpans. “No. That’s unnecessary yelling in wigs.”
“Uncultured swine,” he mutters. “Mom, tell her.”
I laugh. “Harper, it’s a classic.”
She sighs. “Ugh, fine. Maybe I’ll give it a shot.”
“This is huge, Dec. I’m so proud of you.” I tell him, grinning so hard my cheeks ache.
He shrugs. “Thanks, mom. Showcase runs through mid-July. I’ll be home after that.”
My throat tightens. “Good. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
I lean back, watching them. My kids and this unlikely protector sharing a moment that feels almost… normal. Like the walls aren’t pressing in.
And God, I need that.
***
Day 18 — Without Matt
It starts with a drip. A single, innocent drop hitting the tile. Then a trickle. Then—all hell breaks loose.
One second, I’m rinsing my mug, the next—a pipe under the sink explodes like a fire hydrant, blasting water in every direction.
I shriek, throwing up my hands as the spray drenches my face, hair, clothes. Everything.
“Shit—shit—shit!” I yank the cabinet doors open, fumble for the valve, and take a geyser full force to the chest.
Ice cold. Horrified spluttering. Immediate regret.
“Son of a—”
Jax bursts into the kitchen, skidding to a stop. He takes one look at me—dripping, standing in a flood—and loses it completely.
“Ballerina, what the hell did you do?”
I whip around, my ponytail smacking me in the face. “Oh, I don’t know, Jax. Just thought I’d install a fucking water park in my kitchen.”
He snorts, but before he can fire back, the spray nails him too. Full blast, dead center.
He staggers, arms flailing, unleashing a string of curses as water drips from his hair.
I cackle, doubling over. “Not so funny now, huh?”
“Alright, alright—where’s the damn shut-off valve?”
“Hell if I know! You think I go around mapping the waterline?”
“Jesus, Melina,” He groans, already on his knees, water splashing as he shoves himself beneath the sink.
Meanwhile, I stand there useless and dripping, regretting every single life choice that led me here.
“Need a towel?” I ask sweetly.
“Need you to shut up.”
I grin as he grumbles about “civilian incompetence” and “why do I even bother.” Then suddenly—
“Got it!”
The water cuts off, and silence settles over the room.
He exhales, dragging a wet hand across his forehead as he backs out. His shirt clings, his hair’s a wreck, and he looks like he just climbed out of the ocean.
I press my lips together, fighting a smirk. “You look great,” I deadpan.
Jax squints, gaze narrowing as if he’s measuring the bullshit in that statement. Then, without warning, he grabs my waist and yanks me against him, soaking me all over again.
I gasp, smacking his chest, clothes plastering tighter. “Jax!”
“If I’m drenched, you’re drenched, ballerina.”
I squeal, shoving at him, but he pulls me closer, shaking his head like a dog, flinging water everywhere.
“JAX, STOP—you’re getting it in my eyes!”
He laughs. A full, deep belly laugh that shakes his whole body. Loud, unfiltered, and impossible to ignore. It catches me off guard.
His arms stay on my waist a second too long, and I freeze. He’s too close. I tell myself it’s the shock, the cold—anything but what it really is.
Of course, he notices. His laughter fades, but the smirk lingers—knowing, dangerous.
His hands loosen, but he doesn’t let go. “You good, ballerina?”
I blink, acutely aware of how close we still are. How his eyes aren’t teasing anymore—they’re searching.
My palm rests against his chest, warmth bleeding through soaked cotton.
Jesus Christ.
I clear my throat and shove him back. Gentle, but firm. “Yup! Totally fine! Great job, Mr. Fix-It. Look at you, all competent and shit.”
He chuckles. “I’ll take my payment in waffles.”
“Nope. No more waffles until you repair my damn sink.
He lifts his hands in mock surrender, grin sharp. “Relax, sweetheart. I got it covered. Might have to disassemble the entire thing, but I’ll make it work.”
“Good. Because if you break it more, I’ll drown you in the floodwaters.”
His laugh rumbles low as he crouches down. I turn away, willing my pulse to settle. This ease, this warmth I never asked for—it’s starting to blur a line I swore I wouldn’t cross.
I stare at the river spreading across the tile, creeping toward the baseboards like it’s determined to claim the whole first floor. The house reeks of busted plumbing, damp fabric, and regret.
Blowing out a breath, I head to the linen closet and grab everything—bath towels, beach towels, even the old cartoon ones from when Spencer was five—stacked so high I can barely see over them.
When I step back into the kitchen, I stop dead.
Jax has abandoned the sink and is crouched in the middle of the floor, swiping at the flood with one pathetic dish rag.
I blink. “Seriously?”
He glances up, drenched and unbothered. “Making progress.”
I snort and dump the entire pile onto him. “A dish towel? Really?”
He catches one as it slides off his shoulder. “I was being resourceful.”
“You were being ridiculous.”
“Details.”
I shake my head, nudging a beach towel at the worst of it. “This is out of control.”
He grins. “And yet, here we are. Domestic as hell.”
He drops beside me, pushing water toward the door in long, dramatic strokes. “Pretty sure this qualifies as an indoor swimming pool.”
I laugh. “We should start charging admission.”
We work in silence, dragging towel after towel over the floor until the chaos finally eases. The kitchen’s still damp and miserable, but at least it’s not underwater anymore.
Jax wipes his forehead and exhales. “Alright, I’m calling it. If I don’t shower soon, I’m gonna freeze to death.”
“Go. Before hypothermia sets in.”
He nods and heads down the hall, leaving wet footprints in his wake.
I scoop up as many as I can and haul them to the laundry room, shoving them into the washer until it’s practically bursting. I slam the door shut and jab the start button like it personally insulted me.
“Good enough,” I mutter, grumbling about the Great Towel Shortage of 2025, and the fact that Jax is already in the shower, probably draining the last of the hot water.
Because of course he is.
I’m leaning over to grab another saturated rag when he calls from the bathroom, “Melina!”
I jump, nearly slipping on the slick tile. “For fuck’s sake, what now?”
“Towel!”
I let out a slow, exhausted breath, staring at the surrounding wreckage.
“Have you seen this kitchen? There are no towels left. Use your shirt—I’m sure you’ve dried yourself off with worse.”
A long beat of silence.
Then— “I mean, yeah. But usually she buys me dinner first.”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Seriously, Jax? Gross.”
His laughter echoes—deep, unapologetic. “C’mon, ballerina, toss me something.”
I scan the carnage. Most of it’s soaked through, but I manage to dig out one that’s only half-ruined and stomp toward the bathroom.
Cracking the door just wide enough, I chuck it in. “There. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“Much obliged.”
Returning to the kitchen, I take in the aftermath and the absolute whirlwind that is Jackson Mercer. It’s all too much.
Yet somehow… I don’t mind.