Chapter 12 Ghosts of Yesterday #2
Slowly, I reached for his hand.
His fingers immediately tightened around mine.
Instinctively.
Like he needed the contact more than he realized.
"Jaxon."
My voice came out soft.
He finally looked up.
The sadness in his eyes nearly broke me.
"Ben's death wasn't your fault."
The response arrived instantly.
Automatic.
Like he'd repeated it a thousand times before.
"You didn't know him."
"No."
I shook my head gently.
"I didn't."
The truth settled between us.
Simple.
Honest.
"I also know you loved him."
His jaw tightened.
Emotion flashing across his face.
Raw and unguarded.
"And I know you've spent years punishing yourself."
Silence followed.
The kind of silence that confirmed everything.
Because deep down, he knew I was right.
Jaxon sighed heavily.
"You don't understand."
A faint smile touched my lips.
"I think I do."
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
Questioning.
So I took a breath.
Then told him the truth.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
Enough to let him see me too.
"I spent most of my life feeling like a disappointment."
The confession felt strange.
Not because it was difficult.
Because it was so familiar.
Like repeating something I'd always known.
"My father loves me."
Jaxon remained quiet.
Listening.
"I know he does."
The words came slowly.
Carefully.
"But sometimes it feels like he loves the version of me he wants."
My throat tightened.
Old emotions surfacing.
Old wounds opening.
"The version that says the right things."
"The version that looks good in photographs."
"The version that never causes problems."
I laughed softly.
A humorless sound.
"The version that isn't actually me."
The office seemed smaller suddenly.
Filled with memories.
Campaign events.
Public appearances.
Political speeches.
A childhood spent trying to become someone else's idea of success.
"I worked so hard to make him proud."
The words barely rose above a whisper.
"And most of the time, it still felt like I wasn't enough."
Jaxon watched me carefully.
The same way I'd watched him.
Not trying to solve anything.
Just listening.
Being present.
It meant more than he probably realized.
I swallowed hard.
Then continued.
"When publishers reject my work, it feels personal."
A small smile appeared.
Sad.
Self-aware.
"Which is ridiculous."
"No."
Jaxon's voice was quiet.
Firm.
The interruption surprised me.
"It isn't."
Something warm spread through my chest.
The understanding in those two words felt enormous.
I smiled faintly.
"Maybe."
The silence returned.
Comfortable this time.
Not heavy.
Not painful.
Just honest.
I looked at our joined hands.
At the man sitting beside me.
At the scars he'd carried for years.
Then I made a decision.
A simple one.
A necessary one.
I shifted closer.
Close enough that our shoulders touched.
Jaxon immediately stilled.
Not pulling away.
Not moving.
Just waiting.
"I need you to hear something."
His gaze found mine.
Steady.
Attentive.
Vulnerable.
I loved him so much it almost scared me.
"You're not a mistake."
The words came quietly.
"But more importantly, neither are we."
Emotion flickered across his face.
Quick.
Powerful.
Gone before most people would've noticed.
I noticed.
Always.
Because I paid attention to him.
The way he paid attention to me.
"You keep acting like loving someone is dangerous."
I smiled softly.
"Maybe it is."
The admission surprised him.
I could tell.
"But that doesn't make it wrong."
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
The office felt suspended outside of time.
Just two people sitting together.
Telling the truth.
Finally.
Really telling it.
Then Jaxon did something unexpected.
He laughed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The sound carried relief.
Exhaustion.
Hope.
"What?"
I asked.
His head shook slowly.
"You make everything sound simple."
I smiled.
"That's because you're overthinking it."
That earned an actual smile.
Small.
Real.
Beautiful.
The sight made my heart stumble.
God.
I loved that smile.
The realization felt effortless now.
Natural.
Like breathing.
The fear that once accompanied it had disappeared somewhere along the way.
Maybe because I no longer cared whether it terrified me.
Maybe because it was simply true.
Evening arrived gradually.
The garage closed.
The office emptied.
The world outside grew darker.
Yet neither of us seemed eager to leave.
Eventually we made our way upstairs.
The apartment felt warm and familiar.
Safe.
A place that had become ours without either of us noticing.
We ordered food.
Shared a meal.
Talked about everything and nothing.
The conversation drifting naturally from memories to books to motorcycles to writing.
Normal things.
Important things.
Life.
For the first time in days, Jaxon looked lighter.
Not healed.
Not magically fixed.
But lighter.
Like he'd finally set down a burden he'd carried alone for too long.
The sight filled me with quiet happiness.
Later, as rain tapped gently against the windows and the apartment settled into silence, we sat together on the couch.
No television.
No distractions.
Just us.
Jaxon's arm rested around my shoulders.
My head leaned against him.
The simple closeness felt more meaningful than words.
For a while neither of us spoke.
Then his voice broke the silence.
"Thank you."
I tilted my head slightly.
"For what?"
His gaze remained fixed on the rain beyond the window.
"For staying."
The answer hit me directly in the chest.
Emotion tightened my throat.
I reached for his hand.
Squeezed gently.
"There was never anywhere else I wanted to be."
The confession settled softly between us.
Warm.
Certain.
True.
Jaxon looked down at me.
Something unspoken passed between us.
Something deeper than attraction.
Deeper than fear.
The kind of connection built slowly through trust, honesty, and choice.
Not perfect.
Not easy.
Real.
And in that quiet moment, wrapped in each other's arms while rain whispered against the glass, we both understood the same thing.
Whatever challenges waited ahead—his past, my father, the club, the future—we would face them together.
Not because it would be easy.
Because neither of us wanted to walk away anymore.
For the first time since we met on that stormy highway, the future didn't feel frightening.
It felt shared.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
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