Chapter Thirteen
Jax
I spend the following morning pretending I can out-stubborn proximity.
In theory, the cabin is big enough for three people.
In practice, every hallway feels built precisely to funnel me toward Ava Dawson every time I try to escape.
I go to the kitchen—she’s already there, hip perched against the counter, hair in a warm, messy knot, laughing at something Violet said.
I retreat to the living room—she walks through two seconds later to grab a blanket.
I check the woodpile on the porch—she appears behind me asking if the storm has shifted.
The universe is mocking me. Or maybe punishing me. Hard to tell the difference these days.
So I bury myself in repairs. A loose hinge on the bathroom door. A wobbly stair tread. A list of imaginary maintenance tasks that I create just to stay out of her orbit.
It doesn’t work.
Around midday, I’m tightening a screw on the pantry door when I hear her footsteps and instantly feel my spine lock up like a man caught somewhere he shouldn’t be.
“You’re avoiding me,” she says.
Not a question. A diagnosis.
I keep my eyes on the hinge. “I’m fixing the pantry door.”
“You’re avoiding me while fixing the pantry door.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not avoiding you.”
She huffs a soft, incredulous laugh. “You practically sprinted out of the kitchen when I walked in this morning.”
“I don’t sprint.”
She steps closer—too close. Heat rolls off her, that warm, stubborn glow she carries like armor. “Fine. You evacuated at a brisk, emotionally stunted pace.”
I finally look at her. Big mistake.
Her eyes are bright with irritation and something else—something sharp and curious that digs under my ribs. Her cheeks are flushed from the fire. A strand of hair curls against her jaw, begging to be touched.
My pulse stutters.
“I’m not avoiding you,” I repeat quietly. “I’m… giving you space.”
Her eyebrows lift. “By disappearing into the walls like an offended ghost?”
I set the screwdriver down harder than necessary. “Ava—”
“No,” she cuts in, arms folding. “If you’re angry about something, say it. If you’re uncomfortable, say it. If you want us out—”
“I don’t.” Too fast. Too honest.
She blinks, startled.
Damn it.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to find my footing, but the floor is already tilted beneath me. “I’m not angry,” I say, quieter. “I just… don’t know how to do this.”
Her voice softens—not pitying, not invasive. Just human. “Do what?”
“People.” The word tastes like gravel. “Closeness. Noise. Warmth.” My throat works around something fragile. “You and Violet… you’re a lot.”
Her lips part, a flicker of something like understanding crossing her face. “We can be,” she admits. “But you don’t have to handle us alone. You don’t have to handle us at all.”
My heartbeat goes uneven.
The air shifts—heavy, charged, electric in that way storms feel before they crack open the sky. She steps closer, just a half-step, but it’s enough. Too much. Not enough. I don’t know anymore.
Her eyes search mine, slow and deliberate. “If you want space,” she murmurs, “you don’t have to run. You can just… tell me.”
I should. I know I should. Instead, my gaze drops—to her mouth.
Her breath catches as she notices.
The tension snaps tight enough to hum. The space between us collapses inch by aching inch. She tilts her chin up just slightly, barely, like her body betrays her before her mind can stop it.
I move without realizing I’m moving.
My hand lifts—halfway—toward her hip, her waist, the warm line of her neck. Just enough to feel the heat radiating off her. Just enough to see her eyes go soft and startled and wanting.
And then—
I jerk back like I’ve touched fire.
Her brows knit, hurt flickering fast before she schools it away. “Jax—”
“I can’t.” My voice is rough, scraped raw by things I don’t say. “I’m not—this is not—”
“You don’t get to shut me out in the middle of a sentence,” she fires back, stepping toward me again.
“I’m trying not to hurt you.”
That stops her. Fully.
Something fragile ripples across her expression. She takes a slow breath. “You’re not hurting me,” she whispers. “You’re confusing me. There’s a difference.”
I can’t stay in this room another second.
Before she can read me further—before I can betray myself again—I step past her, moving fast, almost tripping over the damned pantry door.
“I have to check the generator,” I mutter.
“It’s working fine,” she calls after me.
“I know.”
I shut the cabin door behind me, letting the cold slap my face until the heat in my chest dulls into something bearable.
Inside, I hear her sigh. And I hate how much I want to go back in and kiss her.