Chapter 10
Jax
"Can't sleep either?" I ask the darkness.
"No." Her voice is small, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Wanna go into the living room?"
"Yeah."
We migrate to the couch, both wrapped in blankets, careful to maintain space between us. The city lights filter through the blinds I pulled earlier, casting shadows that make everything feel surreal.
"I keep thinking about the text I got," she says. "Tomorrow everything burns. What if—"
"We have people watching all the buildings. The fire department's on alert. Nothing's going to burn."
"You can't guarantee that."
"I can try."
She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. "When I was eight, there was a fire in our apartment building. Not Hibiscus Harbor—we lived in Tampa then."
I turn to face her. She's never talked about her childhood before everything with her grandmother.
"My mom was passed out drunk. Again. I tried to wake her up when the smoke alarms went off, but.
.." She shrugs. "The firefighters got us out.
But I remember standing on the sidewalk, watching our apartment burn, knowing all our things were gone.
My stuffed animals, my books, the pictures of my dad before he left. "
"Kendall..."
"My mom blamed me. Said I must have left something on, started it somehow. The fire department said it was electrical, but she needed someone to blame." She laughs bitterly. "She was good at that. Making everything my fault."
"That's why you have the rules," I say, understanding dawning on me. "Control what you can—"
"Because I couldn't control her drinking. I couldn't control my dad abandoning us. Couldn't control the fire." She looks at me. "Couldn't control your leaving either."
The words land like a punch to my chest. "I'm sorry."
"I know. And I know why you left now. Your dad, the cancer. But back then, all I knew was that everyone I loved eventually left. My dad when I was five. My mom, in every way that mattered, by the time I was seven, I was basically alone. Then you."
"Your grandmother didn't leave."
"No. She saved me. Took me in when child services finally caught up with my mom. Gave me stability, rules, structure." She smiles sadly. "Maybe there are too many rules."
"Your rules kept you safe."
"My rules kept me alone." She shifts, facing me fully. "Do you know why I really haven't dated since you? Not seriously?"
"The accountant—"
"Lasted two weeks because I compared him to you constantly. Everyone since has been the same. They're not you, so what's the point?"
My heart stops. "Kendall—"
"I tried so hard to hate you. To use that anger as armor. But then you showed up with that stupid goat, breaking all your precious regulations to help Mrs. Parsons, and I realized something."
"What?"
"I never stopped loving you. I just got really good at pretending I did."
The words hang between us, raw and honest and terrifying.
"I never stopped either," I admit. "Every woman I dated, I was trying to find you in them.
The way you laugh. That little crinkle you get beside your eyes when you're really smiling.
How you hum when you're concentrating." I reach out, not quite touching her.
"I've been comparing everyone to a ghost for years. "
"We're idiots," she says, but she's crying.
"Complete idiots," I agree.
She moves first, or maybe I do… I don’t know. But suddenly she's in my arms, and we're holding each other, both of us crying for all the years we lost, all the pain we caused each other.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper into her hair. "For leaving. For staying away. For being too proud to fight for us."
"I'm sorry for not letting you explain. For holding onto hurt instead of hope." She pulls back to look at me. "For wasting so much time."
"It's not wasted if it brought us here."
"Here? With someone threatening to burn down buildings and destroy my life?"
"Here. Together. Finally being honest."
She touches my face, her thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I'm scared."
"Of the threats?"
"Of this. Us. Of wanting you so much it physically hurts." Her voice drops. "Of what happens when this crisis is over and real life comes back."
"Then we deal with real life together."
"You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. I love you. I've always loved you. That's the only thing that's been constant for ten years."
"Jax..."
"I know we have things to work through. Trust to rebuild. But Kendall, I'm all in. Whatever it takes, however long it takes."
She kisses me. Not like earlier—desperate and hungry. This is soft, achingly tender, tasting of tears and promises.
"I love you too," she whispers against my lips. "I tried not to. God, I tried. But I never learned how to stop."
I pull her closer, and she settles into my lap, her hands framing my face. We kiss like we have all the time in the world, like there aren't threats hanging over us, like we're not both terrified of how much this means.
"I want you," she breathes, and the words shoot straight through me.
"Kendall—"
"Not because I'm scared. Not because of adrenaline. Because I've wanted you every day for ten years, and I'm tired of pretending I don't."
I stand, lifting her with me. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I carry her back to the bedroom, laying her down gently on the bed we'd so carefully shared opposite sides of only hours ago.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"I need to grab protection," I say, reaching for the nightstand drawer where I keep them. "I want to keep you safe in every way."
She nods, appreciation in her eyes. "Thank you. I'm on birth control too, but better safe."
What follows is nothing like our frantic encounter in the hallway earlier.
This is slow, reverent, relearning each other with careful hands and patient mouths.
I trace the curves I've dreamed about, finding new places that make her gasp—the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, the delicate hollow of her throat that flutters with her pulse.
She's changed in ten years—we both have.
There's a small scar on her hip that wasn't there before, a story I don't know yet but I'm anxious to learn.
Her body is more defined, stronger from years of kickball and running between properties.
But the way she responds to my touch, the little sounds she makes when I kiss that spot below her ear—that's exactly the same.
I take my time exploring her, mapping every inch with lips and fingertips. The smooth plane of her stomach tenses under my touch. The soft skin of her inner thighs that makes her breath catch. The arch of her foot, the curve of her calf, every part of her that I've missed for so long.
"I missed you," she gasps as I worship her with my mouth, tasting her, savoring her responses as I remember exactly what makes her come undone.
"I'm here now," I promise against her skin, feeling her tremble. "I'm not going anywhere."
Her hands map my body with the same careful attention, tracing old scars and new muscle, nails scraping lightly down my back in a way that makes me groan.
She explores me with a thoroughness that borders on torture—gentle kisses followed by the scrape of teeth, soft touches that turn firm and demanding.
When she takes me in her hand, stroking with a rhythm she still remembers, I have to close my eyes and fight for control.
"Still sensitive here," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the scar on my shoulder from a football accident, then lower, her mouth following the trail of hair down my chest.
"Still remember everything about you," I respond, proving it by touching her exactly how she likes—slow circles that make her hips lift off the bed, gentle pressure that has her gasping my name.
I watch her face as I touch her, cataloging every expression—the way her eyes flutter closed, how she bites her lower lip, the flush that spreads across her chest. When I slide my fingers inside her, feeling how ready she is, we both moan.
"Please," she whispers, pulling me up to kiss her. "I need you."
When we finally come together, it's with tears in both our eyes. I enter her slowly, both of us savoring the connection, the feeling of being whole again after so long apart. She wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper, and we both have to pause, overwhelmed by the intensity.
This isn't just sex—it's a homecoming, a reconciliation, a promise. Every movement is deliberate, every kiss a vow. I rock into her with slow, deep strokes, wanting to memorize everything—the way she feels around me, the little gasps she makes, how perfectly we still fit together.
We move together as if we were never apart, bodies remembering a rhythm our hearts never forgot. She meets me thrust for thrust, her hands roaming my back, her mouth finding mine in desperate kisses. The pace builds gradually, naturally, both of us chasing something more than just physical release.
"I love you," she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders as I angle my hips in the way that always drove her wild. "I love you. I never stopped, I—"
I capture her words with my mouth, pouring everything I can't say into the kiss. How sorry I am. How much I missed her. How I'll spend the rest of my life making up for lost time if she'll let me.
I can feel her getting close—the way her breathing changes, how her body tenses beneath me. I reach between us, touching her while maintaining our rhythm, determined to watch her come apart.
When she falls apart beneath me, my name on her lips like a prayer, her body clenching around me in waves, I follow her over that edge, burying my face in her neck to muffle my own broken sounds as I spill inside her.
Afterwards, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers in her hair, both of us breathing hard.
"That was..." she starts.
"Yeah, me too."
"We're really doing this? Us? Again?"
"We're really doing this." I nod.
She props herself up on an elbow, looking down at me. The early morning light is creeping through the blinds, painting her skin gold. "My life is a disaster right now."
"So, we'll fix it together."
"Someone's trying to destroy everything I've built."
"Then we'll stop them."
"You can't just—"
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, interrupting her. I reach for it, frowning at the unknown number.
"Don't answer it," Kendall says.
But I've already opened the message. It's a photo. Of us. In this bed. Right now.
"Get dressed," I say, already moving. "Now."
"What—"
I show her the photo. Her face goes white.
"How? The blinds are closed—"
I'm already searching the room, and there—in the smoke detector. A tiny lens that shouldn't be there.
"Hidden camera," I say, pulling it down, crushing it under my heel. "Someone's been in my apartment."
" How? Your locks—” She gasps. “Oh god. That means—what we just—"
"Hey." I pull her against me. "We'll deal with it. But right now, we need to call this in."
My phone rings. Captain Ramirez.
"There's been an incident," he says. "Building 2. Someone set a fire in the dumpster area. It's contained, but—"
"We've been compromised," I interrupt. "Someone put a camera in my apartment."
"What?"
"Hidden camera. In the bedroom. Someone's been watching us."
There's a long pause. "Get out of there! Both of you. Come to the station. Now."
"Captain—"
"That's an order, Masterson. If they've been in your apartment, you're not safe there."
I hang up and look at Kendall, who's already throwing on clothes.
"This is bad," she says quietly.
"Yeah."
"They're not going to stop, are they? Brad, Valerie, whoever else is involved."
"No. But neither are we."
She looks at me, and despite everything—the camera, the fire, the threats—she manages a small smile. "We?"
"We. You and me. Together."
"Even with crazy stalkers and hidden cameras and fires?"
"Especially with all that. I'm not letting you face this alone."
"Your hero complex is showing."
"Your deflection with humor is showing." I smirk back at her.
She laughs, but it's shaky. "Fair point."
I pull her close, pressing my forehead to hers. "We're going to get through this. We're going to catch whoever's doing this. And then we're going to have a very boring, normal life with no goats or fires or hidden cameras."
"That sounds nice."
"Just nice?"
"Perfect. It sounds perfect."
We dress quickly, both of us trying not to think about who might have watched us, what they might have recorded. I do another sweep of the apartment, finding two more cameras—one in the living room, one in the kitchen. My skin crawls thinking about how long they've been here, what they've seen.
"Jax?" Kendall says quietly. "Whoever did this has been in your apartment. Maybe multiple times. That means—"
"They have a key. Or they're picking locks." I check my service weapon, then grab my backup from the safe. "Which means we're dealing with someone more sophisticated than just Brad."
"Valerie?"
"Maybe. Or someone we haven't identified yet."
As we head for the door, my phone buzzes again. Another unknown number.
"Don't—" Kendall starts, but I've already opened it.
It's not a photo this time. Just text.
Unknown: "Nice performance. The next show will have a different ending."
I forward it to the captain, then look at Kendall. "Ready?"
"No."
"Me neither."
We leave the apartment, and I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched even now. In the hallway, in the elevator, in the parking garage. Someone's out there, planning their next move, and we're playing catch-up.
But as Kendall takes my hand, squeezing once before we get in the car, I know one thing for certain.
Whatever comes next, we're facing it together.
Ten years too late, maybe. But together nonetheless.