Chapter Nine
Jax
The nightmare spits me out of sleep before dawn, leaving my heart thudding hard enough to hurt and my throat tight with the kind of grief that still feels fresh even after years of trying to bury it.
I blink into the darkness of the room, listening to the faint groan of the storm outside, the steady creak of the cabin settling, the disorienting hush of two other people breathing somewhere beyond my door.
It takes a moment to remember where I am, why the house isn’t empty, why the air feels warmer than it should.
Ava and her daughter are asleep in the room down the hall.
The generator hums faintly beneath the floorboards.
The fire must still be alive in the stove; the air carries the faint scent of woodsmoke.
And… something else.
A sound. A soft shuffle. A small clatter.
I sit up, instinct prickling. That isn’t an adult moving around—light steps, then a chair leg scraping quietly against the floor. I pull on a shirt and step into the hallway.
There’s a faint glow spilling from the kitchen.
Not bright. Not steady. Like someone tried to turn on a light and barely got the bulb to cooperate.
When I reach the doorway, I find Violet standing at the counter in an oversized sweatshirt, pajama pants dragging over her socks.
She leans both palms on the wood, her shoulders trembling slightly, her breathing thin and uneven.
Her glucometer lies on the counter beside her.
The number on the display makes my chest tighten.
“Hey,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle her. “You okay?”
She turns her head slowly, like it costs her something. Her freckles look sharper against the sudden pallor of her skin. There’s sweat beading at her hairline despite how cold the kitchen is. Her lips are pale, her eyes glassy.
“I didn’t want to wake my mom,” she whispers. “I just… felt weird.”
I cross the room before she sways another inch. “Sit down.”
She tries—and nearly misses the chair entirely. I steady her, lowering her onto the seat and reaching for the fridge with my free hand. The juice boxes they brought last night are tucked neatly on the top shelf. I grab one and kneel beside her, guiding the straw to her lips.
“Small sips,” I say, my voice quieter than I expect. “Slow and steady.”
She obeys, though her hands tremble too violently to hold the box herself. I keep it steady, watching color ebb and flow beneath her skin like a tide trying to decide which way to go.
Her breathing stutters. She blinks, slow and unfocused. “I didn’t want to bother her,” she murmurs. “She barely slept. I heard her crying after she thought I was asleep.”
My jaw goes tight. That image—Ava alone in the dark, breaking where no one can see—lands in a place I don’t want to acknowledge.
“You’re not a bother,” I say gently. “You tell her when you feel off. Every time. Got it?”
She nods, or tries to. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment.
“Hey,” I murmur, nudging her knee. “Stay with me. It’s okay. You’re doing good.”
The number rises a few points on the meter. Not enough yet. It’ll climb, though. It’s climbing already. I’ve ridden out episodes like this more times than I can count. Different people. Different circumstances. But the same fragile moment where a body forgets itself and the world tilts.
A floorboard creaks down the hall.
Then another.
Then Ava bursts through the doorway so fast the cold air seems to follow her. Her hair is loose, messy from sleep, and she’s barefoot in my kitchen, eyes wide with panic. She takes one look at Violet and chokes on a sound I feel in my bones.
“Oh God. Vi—baby—why didn’t you wake me?”
Violet tries to smile. Fails. “Didn’t wanna—scare you.”
Ava’s breathing spikes immediately. She drops to her knees on the opposite side of her daughter, hands hovering uselessly over Violet’s shoulders, over her face, over the juice box I’m holding.
She’s shaking. Not subtly. Not controllably.
Fear lives in her spine the same way loss lives in mine—deep, permanent, waiting for any excuse to roar.
I meet her eyes. “She’s okay,” I say firmly, steadying my voice for her sake. “She’s already coming up. She just needs a few minutes.”
Ava’s gaze flicks to the glucometer, then back to her daughter, then finally to me, like she’s trying to anchor herself to anything that isn’t sheer terror. The trembling slows—not a lot, but enough. She leans forward, cupping Violet’s cheek with a gentleness that nearly folds me in half.
“I’m right here,” she whispers, voice thick and breaking at the edges. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
Violet sips again. Her hands loosen a little. Her shoulders drop. The numbers tick up, slow but steady—forty-eight, fifty-two, fifty-seven.
I stay beside her on the floor, quietly counting breaths, watching the signs I know by heart: the return of warmth to her fingers, the soft flush coming back into her cheeks, the way her eyes begin focusing again instead of drifting.
When she finally looks at me—really looks—I see the fear receding. Exhaustion settles in its place, heavy and soft.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods weakly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Ava sinks into the chair beside her, pulling Violet gently against her chest. Relief radiates off her so intensely it’s almost its own light.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, kissing her daughter’s hair. “You handled it so well. You always do.”
Violet’s voice drifts, barely above breath. “Jax helped.”
Ava’s eyes move to me again. There’s a different kind of emotion there now—gratitude so raw it feels like something I’m not built to receive. “Thank you,” she says, voice soft but weighted with everything she doesn’t know how to say out loud. “I didn’t… I didn’t even know you were awake.”
“I heard her,” I reply. “She was trying to be quiet.”
“She always tries,” Ava whispers, brushing a tear from Violet’s cheek. “Even when she shouldn’t.”
The silence that follows is warm, fragile. Violet leans fully into her mother now, safe, steady, breathing easier with each passing second. I stand slowly, giving them room even though something inside me resists the distance.
Ava looks up at me once more, her eyes still damp, her voice steadier than before. “You were… you were so calm.”
I shrug, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “Someone had to be.”
Something shifts between us—quiet as dawn, subtle as breath, an unspoken acknowledgment passing through the space like warmth in cold air. I don’t know what it is or what to do with it. I just know I wasn’t ready for it. Not at all.
My throat is dry. My hands feel too big. The urge to leave and the urge to stay crash into each other so hard it makes my heartbeat stumble.
I clear my throat. “She… should eat something. Now that her numbers are climbing, it’ll help stabilize her.” I nod toward the fridge. “I can make breakfast.”
Ava blinks like she doesn’t quite understand the offer. Maybe she doesn’t. Hell, I don’t. But I’m already moving, reaching for the pan, setting the stove to heat, pulling eggs from the carton before I can talk myself out of it.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I’m doing it anyway.”
She lets out a slow breath, something halfway between relief and disbelief. Violet watches me too, her eyes still tired but curious now—like she’s trying to figure out why the grumpy stranger with a generator is suddenly cooking her scrambled eggs.
The scent of butter hits the air. The eggs crack cleanly into the pan.
The motions are familiar, muscle memory that feels foreign in this cabin that has never held anyone but me.
I move quietly, aware of every sound—the spatula scraping the skillet, the soft murmur of Ava calming her daughter, the faint hum of the heater fighting the cold outside.
By the time the eggs are done and the toast pops up golden, Violet’s coloring has returned enough that she sits up straighter. Ava helps her to the table, still keeping one steadying hand on her back.
“Here,” I say, placing the plate down in front of the kid. “Small bites. Take your time.”
“Thank you,” Violet whispers, her voice small but earnest.
Her mother echoes it with her eyes more than her words.
I nod once, unable to trust myself to say anything more without revealing too much.
Then I retreat.
I murmur something—“I’ll be in my room, give you two space”—and step back down the hall before I do something stupid like sit with them or ask if they’re really okay.
My pulse hasn’t slowed. My palms still feel warm from holding that damn juice box.
And the echo of Ava’s voice, trembling and terrified, is lodged somewhere under my ribs.
Inside my room, I lean both hands against the dresser and bow my head.
I don’t care. I can’t care.
And yet.
The image of Violet trembling in that kitchen won’t leave me. Neither will the sound of Ava’s relief when the numbers climbed. Or the way she looked at me like I’d done something that mattered.
I shut my eyes hard, jaw clenched.
A day ago they were strangers.
And somehow, this morning, losing them—either of them—already feels like more than I should ever risk.