Chapter Seventeen
Jax
The next morning moves differently—too carefully, like the whole cabin is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just me.
The world outside is drowned in white, the storm finally tapering off, leaving snow stacked high against the windows. The woodstove hums. Coffee brews. Violet chatters about a science project. Everything looks normal. Sounds normal.
But nothing feels normal.
Ava moves around the kitchen in a soft sweater and leggings, hair half up, half down in a way that looks… dangerous. Every time our eyes meet, it’s brief—tentative, warm, startled. Like we’re both touching a bruise we don’t know how to name.
We don’t talk about the night before. Not a word. Not a glance too long. Not a breath too loud.
But the memory hums under my skin—her mouth, her hands, the quiet tremble of her body against mine. Heat flares up my spine just thinking about it. I tamp it down. Hard.
This is safer. Quiet. Careful.
Or it’s supposed to be.
Around midmorning, Violet wanders into the living room with a sheet of paper held behind her back, grinning with that shy confidence only a teenager can pull off.
“Jax?”
I look up from the stove—where I’m pretending the coffee needs intense supervision. “Yeah?”
“Close your eyes.”
I hesitate. “Why?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Because that’s the rule.”
I sigh but do it. Ava’s soft laugh drifts from the counter, and I try not to react to the warmth that blooms in my chest just hearing it.
“Okay,” Violet says. “Open.”
I do.
She holds out a drawing—messy colored pencil lines, scribbles, shadows, bright blues and soft grays. It takes me a second to understand what I’m seeing.
A figure—tall, broad, wrapped in snow gear—standing in the middle of a blizzard. Heavy snow falling. Wind curling in angry spirals around him. And at the bottom, in looping purple marker:
THE GIANT SNOW HERO
My throat closes.
For a long moment, I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Something hot and sharp and painfully familiar punches straight through my ribs.
Violet beams. “Do you like it?”
I swallow hard. “It’s… good. Really good.”
“Mom says you don’t like storms,” she says, nibbling her lip. “But you saved people anyway. That’s what heroes do.”
Ava shifts, her gaze flicking to me—soft, aware, too knowing. “Violet—”
“I know, I know,” Violet interrupts. “You hate compliments.” Then she hands me the picture anyway. “But I wanted you to have it.”
I take it slowly, fingers brushing the edge. The paper trembles in my hands, though I pray to God it’s subtle enough they don’t notice.
A hero. If she only knew.
“Thank you,” I manage, voice rough. “I… thank you.”
She grins bright and proud, then flops onto the couch with her homework.
Ava watches me for a beat longer, her expression gentler than I deserve. I fold the picture carefully—too carefully—and excuse myself before anything cracks open.
The workshop is freezing when I slip inside, the door shutting with a soft thud behind me. I brace my hands on the workbench, bowing my head as breath shudders out of me.
The drawing sits on the wood, innocent and devastating.
A hero.
If she knew how wrong she was—how much blood and failure and wreckage sits in my past—she wouldn’t draw me like that. She wouldn’t look at me with trust. She wouldn’t hand me hope like it’s something I know how to hold.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t let myself care at all.
But the truth is brutal and undeniable:
I like that kid. More than I should. And I am starting to care about her mother in ways that feel like stepping off a cliff.
Tears I didn’t feel coming burn hot at the corners of my eyes. I breathe hard through them, shoulders tightening, jaw locking. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one in my chest.
A soft knock sounds against the workshop door.
“Ava?” I call, clearing the gravel from my voice. “Everything okay?”
Silence.
Another knock—gentler this time. But she doesn’t open the door. Doesn’t call back. Doesn’t push.
She knows something’s wrong. She knows I’m shutting her out again.
The quiet between us is thick enough to choke on.
“Just… give me a minute,” I say, low.
I hear her exhale—a faint, trembling sound. Then soft footsteps retreating down the hall.
When she’s gone, I let my head fall forward, eyes closing tight.
I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let anyone in without breaking them… or myself.
But the drawing sits there, bright against the worn wood, refusing to be ignored.
And for the first time in years, I’m terrified of both options—holding on or letting go.
Either way, something is going to shatter. And I don’t know if I can survive the wreckage again.