Chapter Thirty-Two
◆◆◆
Aria
Aria sat across from Jax in the booth near the back, the one half-hidden by a fake potted plant that had seen better decades. She didn’t open the laminated menu. She just watched him.
He looked smaller than she’d ever seen him.
Shoulders rounded forward, hoodie hanging loose on a frame that had clearly lost weight in the months since she’d last seen him in person.
His hair was longer, unkempt, curling at the ends from the humidity.
Dark circles carved shadows under his eyes, and the stubble on his jaw had gone past designer scruff into something closer to neglect.
His hands—those steady, calloused hands that had once gripped a steering wheel like it was an extension of his body—now rested on the table, fingers laced together so tightly the knuckles were white.
He kept picking up a single fry, turning it slowly between thumb and forefinger like he was inspecting it for flaws, then setting it back down untouched. The plate in front of him was barely disturbed. One bite of burger, maybe two. The rest had gone cold.
Aria felt the ache in her chest sharpen every time he exhaled—a long, shaky sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs.
She hadn’t come here for answers tonight. She hadn’t come to demand explanations or force him to talk.
She came back because he needed someone to sit beside him in the dark. Because grief like this didn’t need fixing—it just needed witnessing. And she could do that. She could be the person who stayed.
There were still so many things they needed to unpack: Min-Jae, the assumptions they had both made, the way she’d let the silence stretch too long on her end too, the fear that had kept her from fighting when he had ended it.
But not tonight. Not while Nan’s breaths were still measured in hours instead of years. Not while Jax looked like he was just holding himself together.
She reached across the table—slow, deliberate—and laid her palm flat between them. An invitation, not a demand.
Jax stared at her hand for a long moment. Then, he placed his on top of hers. His fingers were cold. She curled hers around his, thumb stroking the back of his knuckles in slow, steady circles. He didn’t pull away.
“I’m not with Min-Jae,” she said quietly, the words slipping out like they’d been waiting too long. “That conversation in the studio—with the photo, it was goodbye. Final. No second chances, no loose ends.”
Jax nodded slowly. “It hurt. Seeing that photo. But I get it now. I just… couldn’t think straight. Everything was falling apart and I kept waiting for the next shoe to drop. Thought maybe that was it—you going back.”
“I’m not going back,” she said firmly. “Not to him. Not to that version of us. I’m here. With you. Because I want to be.”
He looked at her then—really looked. Eyes glassy, red-rimmed, searching her face like he was trying to memorise it all over again.
“How long are you staying?” he asked, voice so low she almost missed it.
“As long as you need me.”
The words landed soft but solid. No hesitation. No qualifiers.
He swallowed hard. Blinked once, twice. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I might need you for a while,” he said roughly.
“Then I’m here for a while.”
Bev swung by again, cleared the plates with a quiet efficiency, left the bill.
Jax paid without looking at the total. They stepped out into the night.
The air was cooler, carrying the faint smell of the river and the distant hum of traffic.
Their footsteps fell into an easy rhythm—slow, unhurried.
His hand stayed in hers the whole walk back.
◆◆◆
Jax
They left the diner in silence, the night air thick and warm against Jax’s skin as they walked to the car.
The hospital lights still glowed in the distance, a low orange haze that pulled at him like gravity.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that every step away from that beige room was a betrayal.
That if he left—even for a few hours—something irreversible would happen the moment his back was turned.
“Jax,” she said quietly. “We’re not going back tonight.”
He froze. Looked at her—really looked. Her eyes were steady, soft but unyielding in the streetlight glow.
“I can’t leave her,” he said, voice rough. “What if… what if she wakes up and I’m not there? What if this is the night?”
Aria stepped closer, didn’t let go of his wrist. “She told you to go home.”
“She made me promise,” Aria continued, voice low and careful, “that if you tried to stay all night again, I’d drag you home.
She said you’d be no good to her tomorrow if you kept running on fumes.
She said she’d sleep better knowing you were resting.
And if anything changes—if anything at all happens—the respite home will call.
They’ve got her monitored every second.”
Jax stared at the ground. The asphalt blurred. His chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a band around his ribs and pulled.
“I don’t want her to be alone,” he whispered. The words came out cracked, small.
Aria stepped right into his space then—close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body cutting through the night chill. She placed both hands on his chest, over his heart, steady and sure.
“She’s not alone,” she said softly. “The nurses are there. The machines are there. And she knows you’re coming back tomorrow.”
Jax’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes. Felt the first hot sting of tears he’d been holding back for days.
“I feel like I’m abandoning her,” he said, voice breaking on the last word.
“You’re not.” Aria’s thumbs moved in slow circles over his hoodie.
“You’re giving her what she asked for. Peace of mind.
You’ve been with her every single day, every single hour.
You’ve held her hand, talked to her. You’ve done everything right.
Now let her have this one thing—she wants to know you’re taking care of yourself too. ”
He opened his eyes. Looked at her. Saw the quiet determination there, the way she wasn’t trying to fix him—just trying to carry some of the weight so he could breathe.
“Okay,” he said finally, the word barely audible. “Okay.”
She didn’t push for more. Just nodded, stepped back, and let him get into the driver’s seat. He drove them home on autopilot—through quiet suburban streets, past houses with lights still on in living-room windows, past the park where he used to push Nan’s wheelchair on sunny afternoons.
When they pulled into the driveway of the Paddington condo, the fairy lights along the fence were off, but the porch lamp was on—soft gold spilling across the front step like Nan had left it burning for them.
Jax killed the engine. The sudden silence pressed in.
Aria unbuckled her seatbelt but didn’t move to get out yet. She turned toward him in the dim glow of the dashboard.
“I booked a hotel room,” she said quietly, voice careful, like she was handling something fragile.
“Just in case. I didn’t want to assume you’d want me here.
I know this is… a lot. I know you’ve been alone with it all for weeks.
If you need space, or time, or just to be by yourself tonight—I can go. ”
Jax stared straight ahead at the garage door. His throat worked once, twice. The words felt heavy, stuck somewhere behind his ribs.
He turned to her slowly. The dashboard light caught the exhaustion in her eyes, the faint worry lines between her brows, the way her lips were pressed together like she was bracing for him to say yes, go.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said, voice low and rough. “I really want you to stay.”
She searched his face for a long second—looking for hesitation. She didn’t find it.
“Okay,” she said simply. A small, relieved breath escaped her. “Then I’ll stay.”
He nodded once—sharp, almost like he was afraid if he moved too slowly she’d change her mind. They got out of the car. The night air was thick with humidity and the sweet scent of frangipani. Jax unlocked the front door with hands that shook just enough to make the key scrape in the lock.
Inside, the house smelled like Nan—lavender candle wax, rosemary from the kitchen windowsill, the faint sweetness of her favourite soap.
Her slippers waited by the couch. The half-finished crossword still lay open on the coffee table, pencil resting in the crease.
Jax paused in the hallway, staring at it like it might speak to him.
Aria touched his arm lightly—barely there, just enough to remind him she was still beside him.
He led her down the short corridor to the guest bedroom. The door was already ajar. Inside, the blue quilt Nan had bought years ago still covered the bed. The same quilt they’d tangled in that Christmas, laughing and breathless and alive in a way he hadn’t felt since.
He stopped in the doorway, memories crashing over him: her mouth on his, her quiet gasps, Nan’s knowing wink over breakfast the next morning like she hadn’t heard a thing through the thin walls.
Now the room felt different. Smaller. Sadder. The same walls, the same bed, but everything else had shifted under the weight of what was coming.
Aria slipped past him, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the mattress. She looked up at him—not expectant. Just open. Waiting.
“Come here,” she said quietly.
He moved without thinking. Kicked off his own shoes, pulled back the covers, and slid in beside her. The sheets were cool against his overheated skin. She shifted, turned toward him, and opened her arms.
He went into them like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.
She pulled him close—chest to chest, one arm around his shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head.
His face tucked into the curve of her neck.
She smelled like travel and jasmine and the faint salt of tears he hadn’t realised she’d shed in the car.
He could feel her heartbeat against his—slow, steady, real.
No kisses. No wandering hands. No heat.
Just her holding him.
The first tremor started in his chest—small, then bigger. A sound escaped him—half sob, half exhale. He hadn’t cried properly yet. Not since the doctors had said “prepare yourself.” He’d kept it locked down, kept moving, kept pretending he could carry it alone.
Now it broke.
Quiet at first—shoulders shaking, breath hitching. Then harder. Tears soaked the collar of her shirt. He curled his hands in the back of her top, holding on like she might disappear if he let go.
She didn’t hush him. Didn’t tell him it would be okay. She just held him tighter, one hand stroking his back, the other cradling his head like he was something precious and breakable.
He cried for Nan—the woman who’d raised him when no one else could. For his mum, who’d whispered “keep driving” with her last breath. For his dad, who’d faded so quietly it still felt like abandonment. For himself—the boy who’d lost both parents, the man who was about to lose the only one left.
Aria held him through all of it.
Eventually the sobs eased into shuddering breaths. He felt hollowed out, raw, lighter in a way that hurt. She didn’t let go. Just kept stroking his back, slow and steady, like she could rub the broken pieces back together with patience alone.
His eyelids grew heavy. The exhaustion he’d been fighting for weeks finally crashed over him.
He slept.
Deeply. Dreamlessly. For the first time in longer than he could remember.
Her arms stayed around him the whole night.