Chapter Eleven
Jax
I don’t remember falling asleep. I only remember the dark.
Not peaceful dark—the kind that swallows sound and breath and thought until all that’s left is the moment everything went wrong.
I hear it before I see it: the wet screech of tires on asphalt, Emily’s sudden inhale, the bone-deep instinct to reach for her across the console.
Then the crash hits me all over again, a violent shudder that rips through my ribs and snaps me awake.
I sit up in the narrow bed the cabin keeps pretending is comfortable, sweat cooling on my neck, the blanket twisted across my legs like I fought it in my sleep.
For a long moment, the silence feels wrong.
Too still. Too gentle. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve brought a storm into a place that wasn’t built to hold one.
I run a hand over my face and force myself to breathe through the leftover adrenaline. Inhale. Exhale. Again. The nightmares come in cycles—some weeks they’re sharp as knives, some weeks they soften into dull bruises. Lately they’ve been the sharper kind.
Maybe it’s because someone saved my life. Maybe because I didn’t want them to.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, tug on a T-shirt, and open the door as quietly as I can. No lights. The fire has burned down to faint embers. The whole cabin is cast in a soft gray-blue glow from the cold moonlight bleeding through the windows.
And then I see her.
Violet.
Sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, a small lamp on the floor beside her. She’s drawing—pencil whispering over paper in slow, careful strokes. The kid looks half-asleep, eyelids heavy, hair a dark cloud around her face.
She doesn’t notice me right away. I take a second to steady myself, because something about her sitting there—small and quiet and so damn brave it hurts—is enough to make the lingering panic in my chest loosen.
When she finally lifts her head, her eyes widen a little. Not with fear. Just surprise.
“Oh,” she says softly. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She studies me with an intensity that reminds me far too much of her mother. “Bad dreams?”
I hesitate. Too long, probably.
“Something like that,” I say. “Why are you awake?”
She shrugs under the blanket. “Couldn’t sleep either. Sometimes I draw until my head gets quieter.”
I nod, shifting my weight. “Does it help?”
“Most of the time.” Her pencil keeps moving, slow and rhythmic. “Do you… have nightmares a lot?”
The question hits straight between the ribs. I glance away.
“No,” I lie.
It’s too smooth. Too practiced. A reflex I learned the hard way—when telling the truth meant watching people flinch, or pity, or try to fix something they couldn’t.
Violet tilts her head, like she can hear the lie rattling around my bones.
“You don’t have to pretend here,” she says, calm and matter-of-fact in a way that shouldn’t belong to a kid her age.
“My mom says the cabin is a ‘judgment-free zone.’ Which mostly means she can swear at the coffee maker without guilt, but I think it counts for other things too.”
A breath slips out of me. Almost a laugh, almost something else entirely. I don’t know what to say to that. Or why her simple honesty cracks a small, unexpected fissure through the thick wall I’ve spent years keeping intact.
She goes back to her drawing, pencil moving again. I kneel down beside her—not too close, just near enough to see the page. It’s a rough sketch of the cabin’s fireplace, warm and soft despite the hastily drawn lines.
“You’re good,” I murmur.
Violet’s cheeks pink slightly. “Thanks.”
We sit in quiet companionship for a few minutes—long enough for her to start nodding, her pencil slipping, her chin dipping toward her chest. I gently ease the notebook from her hands before she can drop it, and she blinks up at me, sleepy and trusting.
“Bed,” I say quietly. “Come on.”
She gets to her feet and pads toward the guest room, blanket trailing behind her. I follow just long enough to make sure she climbs into bed safely, then pull the door until it’s cracked for comfort.
The house settles into quiet again.
I don’t sleep.
***
In the morning, I’m already awake when I hear footsteps—fast ones, lighter than Ava’s. Violet wanders out with her hair sticking up in every direction, wearing an oversized sweater that practically swallows her whole.
“Can I help?” she asks, blinking up at me as I stand at the kitchen counter surveying my cabinet door problem.
The hinge has been loose for months, but something about last night—her bravery, her honesty—makes me want to fix something for her. Even if it’s something small. Something stupid.
“You can supervise,” I say, grabbing my toolbox.
This earns a grin. “I’m excellent at supervising.”
Within minutes, I’m crouched under the counter, screwdriver in hand, listening to Violet chatter about school, her art contest next month, and a YouTube video involving a squirrel and an ice skate that apparently changed her life.
She keeps me talking, too. Somehow. I barely realize I’m answering questions until I look up and see her watching me like I’m someone safe.
Someone she trusts.
It’s a feeling I haven’t earned. It scares me more than any avalanche ever could.
When I tighten the last screw, the cabinet door swings smoothly—no wobble, no resistance. Perfect.
Violet beams so brightly it knocks the breath right out of me. “You fixed it!”
“It’s just a door,” I say, even though something in me warms anyway.
I stand, wiping my hands on a towel, when a soft sound behind me makes my chest tighten.
Ava.
She leans in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, hair a little wild from sleep, wearing soft leggings and a sweatshirt that makes her look far more innocent than she actually is.
Her gaze shifts from the cabinet to me—and something flickers across her expression, confusing even her.
Softness. Surprise. A little awe she tries to hide.
“Who knew you were so handy,” she says quietly.
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. “Just a hinge.”
“Still,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “She loves stuff like this.”
Violet nudges her. “Jax had bad dreams last night.”
My eyes widen. The kid throws me under the bus without hesitation. Ava turns sharply toward me, concern rising so fast it’s almost palpable. I clear my throat.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
Ava’s gaze holds mine a little too long, a little too knowingly. She doesn’t push. But she sees more than I want her to.
And that’s the part that shakes me.
Not the nightmare. Not the memories. Not the haunting echo of Emily’s voice fading into dark.
It’s this: Ava Dawson stands in my kitchen, sunlight edging her hair, her daughter smiling at me like I’m something good, and all I can think is—
I care.
Already. Too much.
And I have no idea how to stop.