17. Jax
Chapter seventeen
Jax
She’s in my shirt.
I stand in the doorway and just — stop. Fourteen months on Bumble. Eleven dates. Paid every check. Came home alone every time. Brick on my chest. Quiet house.
Enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Until her.
I make coffee. She doesn’t hear me come in — deep in her phone, that frown she gets when something’s wrong. I put her cup on the counter at the right temperature. Then I go right back to my tablet like any of this is normal.
“Thanks.”
She reaches for it without looking up. Drinks. Goes back to whatever’s wrong. Neither of us says anything.
Three minutes later: “This city has the worst sports radio in the league.”
“Which show.”
“The morning one. The two guys… the one with red curly hair.”
“Hendricks and Cole.”
“Yup. They just said the Cyclones won’t make it past the Conference Final because—” pause — “the goalie is a question mark.”
I look up.
Jaw set. The tight quality it gets when she’s already decided something is worth her time.
“Question mark,” she says again.
“They said that last year.”
“And?”
“We’re still here.”
She looks at me over her phone. Too early for a smile — but something shifts. “You’re very calm about someone calling you a question mark.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“By who.”
“Everyone who didn’t think we’d make it this far.” I go back to my tablet. “Hendricks and Cole have been wrong about this team since we started. I keep a folder.”
She stares at me. “You keep a folder.”
“Of every time they were wrong.”
“That’s either extremely petty or extremely healthy.”
“Both. Definitely both.”
She snorts into her coffee.
We go back to our respective screens. Two minutes of quiet.
Then she says — without looking up — “Last night.”
I look up.
She’s still looking at her phone. Not reading it. Just holding it.
“What about it,” I say.
“Nothing.” She’s still not looking at me, the tips of her ears gone pink. “Just — what did you do to me.”
“I mean that in the best possible way,” she says. “Obviously. I just—” She stops. Starts again. “I’ve never — okay never mind.”
“Just what.”
“I said never mind.”
“Nova.”
“Jax.”
I wait.
She puts her phone face down on the counter. Looks at me sideways. “I woke up this morning and my first thought was not about coffee. That’s new. That’s never happened before. Coffee is always first.”
“What was first?” I wink.
She gives me a look.
“You taste sweet, what can I say.”
Her face goes crimson.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Picks up her coffee and takes a very long sip and does not look at me.
My dick kicks.
I look at my tablet.
“Don’t be smug about it,” she mutters.
“I’m not smug.”
“You look smug.”
“That’s just my face.”
She picks up her phone, puts it right back down. “You’re insufferable.”
“You stayed.”
“I was tired.”
“Still, you stayed,” I say again.
She doesn’t say anything. Reaches for her coffee. Drinks it. Doesn’t say anything else.
I drop it.
Brick makes his decision at seven-fifteen. Walks the full length of the counter. Sits down next to her arm. She looks at him. He blinks at her. She goes back to her phone. He stays.
Three years I’ve had this cat. Did the same thing to me at the shelter — sat next to my leg without being invited and that was that. Now he’s done it to her.
I take a sip of my coffee.
She goes quiet a while after. Different kind — not the shared silence from before. Something more internal. Holding her phone but not reading it.
I don’t ask.
“There’s a piece running today,” she says eventually. “Military families. Some nonprofit.” She puts the phone down. “We moved eleven times before I was eighteen.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You get good at leaving. Really good at it — pack fast, say goodbye clean, don’t make it harder than it has to be.” She looks at her coffee. “And then somewhere along the way you realize you’ve been practicing leaving so long you don’t actually know how to do the other thing.”
She stops. “Sorry. It’s early.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m not usually—”
“Nova.”
She closes her mouth and I let it sit. She doesn’t need fixing. Just somewhere to put it.
“You’ve been here eight months,” I say.
“Eight months,” she says. Quiet. More to herself than to me.
“Yeah.”
That’s enough. Aiden walks in at eight. Always had a key. Never been a problem until this exact morning. Comes through the door talking — something about Caleb, something inadvisable — and stops. She’s at the counter. My shirt. Brick on her arm.
Aiden looks at me. I look at him. Full slow turn. Walks back out.
“I’ll text,” he says through the closed door.
Nova looks at the door. Looks at me. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No.”
“He looked like he had opinions.”
“He always has opinions.”
“About this specifically.”
“Especially about this specifically.” I pick up my tablet. “He’ll survive.”
My phone goes off — Aiden, then Aurora, then Aurora again. I type later and put it face down. Nova clocks it. Doesn’t ask.
That’s one of the things about her.
I make eggs.
She eats standing — still mid-something. Brick positions himself at the edge of the counter.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
She puts a piece down for him without looking at me.
“He’s not supposed to have that,” I say.
“He was very polite.”
“He’s always polite. The whole system runs on being polite until someone gives in.”
“Has it worked before?”
“Every single time.” I crack another egg. “You just became the newest victim.”
“I prefer willing participant.”
“That’s what they all say.”
She gives him another piece. We finish breakfast standing at the counter and the morning does what it does — light through the window, the city starting up outside, two people who’ve found a rhythm without deciding to.
She wanders while I clean up. Stops in the doorway of Aurora’s old room. Doesn’t go in.
“Your sister lived here,” she says.
“For a while. She needed somewhere. I had it.”
She turns and looks at me across the kitchen. “You gave it to her without being asked.”
“It’s a good room. Good light.”
“Jax.”
“South-facing. Gets the morning.”
She looks at me the way she looks at things she’s figured out and decided not to push. Turns back to the room. “Good light,” she says.
“Yeah.”
She comes back into the kitchen. Refills her coffee. Doesn’t say anything else. Neither do I.
She leaves at nine.
Finds her dress. Her shoes. Her bag. Clean exit. At the door she stops. Looks down at the shirt.
“Your shirt,” she says.
“Keep it,” I say.
She looks up at me. For just a second she doesn’t have anything ready. She nods once. Goes.
The house settles. Her plate is in the drying rack. She washed it without being asked. Brick on the counter where she was. Her coffee cup still there — I’m not moving it. My phone going — Aurora, Aiden, probably a group chat I don’t want to open. Not looking at it.
Game 5 tonight. Round 2. Everything we’ve built on the line. The crease mine. The ritual holding.
I look at the coffee cup. I look at the plate in the drying rack.
Yeah, I think.
Good luck with any of it.