Chapter Twenty
Ava
By the time Violet leaves for school, I’m telling myself today is fine. Totally fine. Absolutely no hot-spring-kiss-related emotions happening here.
I load dishes, tidy blankets, and pretend not to notice that Jax is keeping his distance this morning—or that I can still feel his mouth on mine every time I blink.
The phone buzzes on the counter.
Bank Notification
My stomach does its usual drop—overdue bills tend to do that—but this one… it isn’t a charge.
It’s green.
PAYMENT RECEIVED — $968.92
I frown. That’s not a paycheck amount, not a refund amount… it’s too specific. Too pointed.
I swipe the notification open.
SILVER RIDGE COMMUNITY CLINIC Invoice Paid Remaining Balance: $0.00
Payment Reference: JT
The world tilts.
JT
Not a charity. Not a relative. Not the clinic. Him.
A rush of heat hits me—equal parts relief, humiliation, anger, gratitude. My eyes burn and my throat tightens, and none of those feelings make sense beside one another.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to need anything from anyone again.
I walk straight down the hall, phone clenched like a weapon.
The workshop door is cracked open. The rhythmic sanding inside stops the moment my shadow crosses the threshold.
I push the door all the way open.
He looks up. Sawdust in his hair. Gloves on. Eyes startled—but quickly shuttering.
“You paid it.” Not a question. A verdict.
His jaw tenses. “You’re welcome.”
“You had no right.”
Finally, something flashes across his face—frustration, equal parts sharp and wounded. “You needed help.”
“I didn’t ask for help!”
“You shouldn’t have to ask!” His voice rises, cracks. “You’re drowning, Ava.”
I step forward without meaning to. “And you think throwing money at my problems gives you the right to judge how I survive?”
“It gives your daughter her medicine!” he snaps, louder now. “That’s all that matters.”
“Don’t you dare,” I breathe, cold as the mountain air outside, “pretend you did this for Violet without admitting you did it for me.”
He flinches like the words cut. Maybe they do.
“I don’t want your pity,” I say.
“It wasn’t pity.” His hands fist at his sides. “It was the only thing I could do that didn’t risk—” He stops himself. Looks away. “It was the only thing.”
I step closer, heart hammering. “Why? Why do you care this much about us?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. His breathing is unsteady. He doesn’t speak.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “You can risk your life in an avalanche but not your feelings?”
His eyes snap back to mine—dark, stormy.
“Ava.” My name scrapes out of him, rough and dangerous.
Something inside me answers.
The air between us heats—faster than either of us can deny. Our angry breathing fills the room. The fight swells into something else—something hotter, hungrier, inevitable.
“You can’t push me away and pull me closer at the same time,” I say, chest heaving.
“I’m trying not to drag you under with me,” he growls. “Everything near me gets ruined.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
His hand twitches—like he wants to reach for me. Like he’s physically fighting the instinct.
I take one more step.
“So ruin me,” I whisper.
His breath stops. And then—he breaks.
One second, he’s a wall. The next, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hard, fierce. His hands frame my face, desperate, trembling. I grip the front of his shirt like I might fall through the floor otherwise.
This is not soft. This is not careful. This is two people starving, finally admitting it.
I gasp against his lips and he moves closer. Presses me back against the workbench, sawdust scattering under my fingertips. Heat roars through me. His body fits mine like it’s been waiting for this moment—afraid of it, wanting it, terrified of wanting it.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only because he has to breathe. His forehead rests against mine, breath uneven, lips still shaking.
“I can’t,” he says, voice shattered.
“You already have,” I whisper.
He stumbles backward like he’s been hit. Eyes wide. Chest heaving. Horror crowding out the hunger.
“No. Ava—” He shakes his head, backing away further, almost tripping over a stack of wood. “I told you. Everything near me gets destroyed.”
“You saved us,” I say. “You keep saving us. Why is that so terrible?”
“Because I’m not supposed to want to.”
His voice has a crack in it—and it opens something inside me too. He grips the edge of his workbench like he needs the world to stop spinning. His eyes refuse to meet mine.
“I can’t do this,” he says hoarsely.
“What?” My voice breaks.
He forces himself to look at me—really look—and the devastation in his eyes hurts worse than the words.
“I can’t care about you.”
Too late. He already does.
He turns, bracing his palms against the workbench like the wood is the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders are shaking — not with cold, but with the weight of everything he’s tried not to feel.
My heart slams once. Then I move.
I cross the space between us and lay my hand over his—fingers sliding over splinters and rough calluses. He jerks, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You think caring is a choice,” I whisper, sliding my other hand up the rigid line of his arm. “It isn’t. It already happened.”
His breath stutters — a sharp, broken sound.
“Ava…” He says my name like he’s confessing it.
I step closer until my front presses to his back, warmth against the trembling cold of him. My cheek brushes his shoulder blade. “You don’t get to decide you don’t care about us just because you’re scared of what it means.”
His knuckles whiten against the workbench. “I don’t want to ruin you.”
“You won’t.” My lips graze the base of his neck—a promise, a vow. “You’re saving me.”
His exhale shatters.
Slowly, like he’s afraid to believe any of this is real, he turns to face me. His hands rise—tentative at first—one framing my jaw, the other slipping to the small of my back as though someone might rip us apart any second.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice frayed and pleading.
“Then let me help you,” I breathe.
His defenses collapse all at once—a silent avalanche.
He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s learning the shape of hope. His thumb strokes my cheek, and he leans into me with a sincerity that makes my knees weak.
His forehead touches mine, eyes closed, voice barely a breath. “Ava…”
“I’m here,” I promise.
And in the quiet that follows, something shifts—subtle but irreversible—like the first step toward a future neither of us can pretend not to want.