Chapter 4 Cracks in the Armor #2
"They offend writers?"
"They terrify writers."
His mouth twitched.
There it was again.
That almost-smile.
I liked it far too much.
"How bad is it?"
I closed the laptop.
Defeated.
"Pretty bad."
Jaxon nodded sympathetically.
Which somehow felt worse.
I rested my chin on my hand.
"What do you do when you get stuck?"
His eyebrows lifted.
"With motorcycles?"
"Yeah."
The question seemed to surprise him.
He considered it for a moment.
"If something isn't working, I stop forcing it."
I blinked.
That was actually decent advice.
Annoyingly decent.
"You make that sound easy."
"It usually isn't."
I smiled slightly.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
The rain had finally stopped outside.
The apartment felt warm.
Comfortable.
The kind of environment that encouraged conversations people didn't usually have.
I wasn't sure who started it.
Maybe me.
Maybe both of us.
Either way, the topic shifted unexpectedly.
"Do you ever get tired of people making assumptions about you?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Jaxon looked up immediately.
His expression grew thoughtful.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether they're wrong."
Fair answer.
I laughed softly.
"Most assumptions about me are wrong."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Like what?"
I hesitated.
The smart response would've been changing the subject.
Unfortunately, I seemed to lose access to common sense whenever we talked.
"Most people think my life is perfect."
Jaxon set the paperwork aside.
That simple action made something tighten in my chest.
Because it meant he was listening.
Really listening.
Not waiting for his turn to speak.
Not pretending.
Listening.
"Why?" he asked.
I laughed.
A humorless sound.
"Because of my father."
Understanding immediately flashed across his face.
Not complete understanding.
Just enough.
"The senator."
I nodded.
Senator Thomas Reed.
My father.
One of the most recognizable political figures in the state.
A man who could command an entire room simply by walking into it.
A man millions of people admired.
A man I loved.
And feared.
Sometimes simultaneously.
"What's he like?"
The question should have been easy.
Instead, I stared at the table.
Searching for an answer.
Eventually, I settled on honesty.
"Complicated."
Jaxon nodded.
Apparently he understood complicated.
That wasn't surprising.
The man practically looked like he'd been carved from complicated.
"My dad loves me."
The words came automatically.
Because they were true.
Important.
Necessary.
"He's just..."
I stopped.
The right word refused to appear.
"Demanding?" Jaxon suggested.
I laughed softly.
"That's one way to describe it."
"Try another."
I looked toward the dark window.
Thought about campaign events.
Fundraisers.
Public appearances.
Photo opportunities.
The endless pressure of growing up inside someone else's image.
"Everything has to mean something."
Jaxon remained silent.
Waiting.
So I continued.
"If I wear a shirt, it matters."
His brow furrowed.
"What?"
"The color."
I smiled bitterly.
"The message."
"The image."
"The audience."
His expression hardened slightly.
I barely noticed.
Once the memories started, they kept coming.
"If I post something online, it matters."
"If I date someone, it matters."
"If I say the wrong thing at the wrong event, it matters."
I shrugged.
The motion felt helpless.
"Twelve-year-old me once accidentally embarrassed him during a fundraiser."
Jaxon leaned forward.
"What happened?"
I laughed despite myself.
"I told a reporter I thought politicians lied for a living."
For a second, silence filled the room.
Then Jaxon laughed.
A real laugh.
Deep.
Rich.
Warm.
The sound shocked me.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard him laugh like that.
My chest tightened unexpectedly.
Not from anxiety.
Something else.
Something softer.
"You weren't wrong," he said.
I laughed too.
The moment faded quickly.
Reality returning.
As it always did.
"My father didn't think it was funny."
"No?"
"No."
The smile disappeared from my face.
The memories weren't funny.
Not really.
The lectures.
The expectations.
The constant pressure to be perfect.
To represent something.
To become something.
To never disappoint anyone.
Especially him.
"I spent most of my childhood trying to be who he wanted."
The confession came quietly.
Without planning.
Without preparation.
"I still do sometimes."
Jaxon watched me carefully.
The intensity of his attention made looking away impossible.
"Why?"
The question surprised me.
Because nobody had ever asked it before.
Why?
Not how.
Not what happened.
Why.
I swallowed.
"Because disappointing him feels like failing."
The words settled heavily between us.
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
Then I laughed softly.
Embarrassed.
"Sorry."
"Don't."
His voice sounded rougher than before.
I looked up.
Something had changed in his expression.
The warmth remained.
But another emotion had joined it.
Anger.
Not directed at me.
Something else.
Something deeper.
I frowned.
"What?"
Jaxon's jaw tightened.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he shook his head.
"Nothing."
Lie.
Obvious lie.
I knew it immediately.
So did he.
Yet neither of us addressed it.
The conversation shifted after that.
Lighter topics.
Safer subjects.
Books.
Music.
Motorcycles.
The tension eventually faded.
At least on the surface.
Later, after I'd retreated to the guest room, I sat on the bed with my notebook balanced across my knees.
The apartment had grown quiet.
Jaxon remained downstairs.
Probably finishing paperwork.
Maybe thinking.
I wasn't sure.
What I did know was that tonight felt important.
Not because of anything dramatic.
Nothing dramatic had happened.
Nobody confessed feelings.
Nobody kissed.
Nobody crossed any lines.
Yet somehow the distance between us had changed.
Shifted.
Become smaller.
I opened my notebook.
Then wrote a single sentence.
The rider hated cages, which was why he recognized one immediately when he saw it wrapped around someone else.
I stared at the words.
Then smiled.
Because for the first time, I knew exactly how the next chapter should begin.
What I didn't know was that downstairs, Jaxon sat alone in the living room replaying everything I'd told him.
Thinking about expectations.
Pressure.
Control.
And feeling something dangerously close to protective anger for the first time since I'd entered his life.
Neither of us realized just how important that feeling would become.
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