Chapter Twenty-One
Jax
I shouldn’t have let myself need that much.
The promise of something I don’t know how to hold without breaking.
The storm outside has quieted, but the storm beneath my ribs hasn’t. I stand in the center of the bedroom like a man waking from a dream he wasn’t supposed to have.
I scrub both palms over my face. I don’t get to have that again. I don’t get to crave it. Caring was the first step toward losing everything once—why the hell would it end any differently now?
I pace until my boots have memorized every plank beneath them.
It wasn’t supposed to go this far. I wasn’t supposed to let myself feel this much. She isn’t supposed to look at me like she can see a future I don’t deserve.
Weak. Idiot. Fool.
I shove a fist against the wall, not hard enough to break anything except the tension threatening to implode in my chest. “No. You don’t get to do this,” I growl at myself. “You don’t get to want again.”
I told her I couldn’t care.
I force myself into the house before I can change my mind. The cabin is quiet except for the soft clatter of dishes in the sink. Violet is at school. Good. One less heart to shatter while I try to fix this mistake.
Ava stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a loose knot that somehow makes my lungs forget how to work. She turns slightly when she hears me, eyes steady.
That should make this easier. It doesn’t.
“We need to talk,” I manage.
She sets down the dish towel, turning to face me fully. No fear. No apology. Just honesty—open and devastating.
“Okay,” she says.
I rake a hand through my hair, searching for words that don’t feel like ripping out my own ribs.
“What happened…” My throat closes. I force the next breath. “It can’t happen again.”
Ava’s eyebrows lift—barely—but the blow lands.
“We crossed a line,” I continue, the words scraping my tongue raw. “I crossed a line I never should have. Not with you. Not with Violet here. I’m not… safe, Ava. I don’t get happy endings. I destroy them.”
Her jaw tightens. “You haven’t destroyed anything.”
I laugh once—bitter and humorless. “Not yet.”
She takes a step toward me, and panic claws up my spine because I know if she touches me again, I won’t be able to finish this.
“No,” I say, backing away, palms up in surrender. “Please. Just—let me finish.”
Her shoulders stiffen, but she nods.
“You and Violet can stay one more night,” I force out. “After that, you should go back to your lives. To something normal. Something that isn’t… me.”
“No,” she finally says softly.
“No?” I echo, breath going sharp.
“No,” she repeats. “Violet needs stability. A roof that doesn’t leak. Someone who knows what to do when her blood sugar crashes at 5 a.m. If you think forcing us into a worse situation keeps us safer—news flash: it doesn’t.”
I shake my head, pacing again because standing still feels like drowning. “I can’t—Ava, I can’t be what you need.”
“We’re not asking you to be anything.” Her voice rises, heat pouring into every word. “We’re asking you not to run.”
“I’m not running.” It comes out too fast.
She arches a brow. “Then what do you call this?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint citrus of her shampoo.
“You pulled us into your arms during the windstorm,” she says. “You’ve saved Violet without thinking. You kissed me like you wanted to breathe again.”
Her voice softens, but her fire does not.
“Stop acting like you don’t care.”
My ribs squeeze tight. “Caring is what destroys everything. You don’t know what happens when I—”
“I do know,” she cuts in, fiercer now. “Because I care. It’s terrifying. But I do it anyway. Every day. I get up and face a world that could take my child from me in a second. I don’t get to choose not to care.”
Her eyes go bright, not with tears—but with fury born of love.
“Don’t tell me I don’t understand fear.”
Silence drops heavy. Thick.
She takes one more step, standing toe-to-toe now, breath mixing with mine.
“I’m not letting you push us away because you’re scared,” she whispers. “Not when we’re safer here than anywhere else right now.”
I look at her. Really look.
A woman who has fought every battle alone. Who keeps standing up even when the world keeps swinging.
And I realize she is right: I’m not trying to protect them. I’m trying to protect myself—from needing them.
“I don’t know how to let anyone stay. How to let anyone in,” I admit, voice cracking down the center.
Ava lifts her hand slowly, like she’s giving me time to run, then brushes her fingertips against my fist—just one soft touch.
“Then let us teach you.”
The room feels too small for all the truths pressing into it.
I don’t say yes. But I don’t say no.
And that—in my world—is as close to hope as I’ve ever allowed myself.