Chapter Thirty-Three
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Aria
The week slipped by in soft, quiet rhythms.
Mornings began early at the respite care unit.
Aria and Jax arrived together just after breakfast—coffee in hand for him, iced matcha for her—settling into the familiar routine of the beige room that had become their temporary centre of gravity.
Nan was weaker each day, but still present: eyes brightening when they walked in, small smiles when Jax cracked one of his terrible jokes, a faint squeeze of the hand when Aria read aloud from the old paperback romance novels Nan kept on the bedside table.
Some afternoons the nurses encouraged them to take Nan out for a walk around the grounds.
The gardens were modest—neat lawns, rose beds starting to fade, a gravel path that circled a small fountain—but Nan loved them.
Jax pushed her wheelchair slowly, pointing out birds or flowers, narrating ridiculous stories about the ducks that lived in the pond as if they were old mates from the track.
Aria walked beside them, one hand resting lightly on Nan’s shoulder, the other occasionally brushing Jax’s arm.
Nan would tilt her head back and say, “Look at you two—proper pair of lovebirds,” and Jax would roll his eyes and mutter something about her being a hopeless romantic, but the flush on his cheeks gave him away.
Evenings they returned to the Paddington flat.
No grand conversations. No drama. Just quiet companionship.
They ate simple things—takeaway Thai, scrambled eggs on toast, whatever was easy and didn’t require thought.
They sat on the couch watching old racing replays Jax had saved on his laptop, or listened to music Aria played softly from her phone.
Sometimes they talked about nothing important—Nan’s terrible taste in bridge partners, the neighbour’s cat that kept stealing socks off the line.
Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. They just existed in the same space, breathing the same air.
One afternoon, Jax stepped out to speak with the nurse about adjusting Nan’s pain meds. The door clicked shut behind him.
Nan turned her head slowly toward Aria. Her eyes, still sharp despite the morphine haze, fixed on her with purpose.
“Come here, love,” she said, voice thin but steady.
Aria moved the chair closer, took Nan’s hand. It was cool, fragile, but the grip was deliberate.
“Jax is out there playing the hero again,” Nan said with a small, knowing smile. “Told the nurse he’d sort it himself. Always has to fix everything, that boy. But I sent him off on purpose. I wanted a moment with you.”
Aria’s heart gave a quiet thud. “What is it, Evelyn?”
Nan studied her for a long moment—eyes searching, gentle but unflinching.
“He’s so strong, isn’t he? Always joking, always making everyone else laugh.
Even now, with me like this, he’s makeing wisecracks about the nurses’ terrible coffee.
But I know what it costs him. He credits me with being there for him after his parents—after my daughter died, then my son-in-law—but the truth is, he was there for me too.
Thirteen years old and already trying to make me smile when I was drowning in grief.
Sad, yes, but never broken. Always the jokester.
Always the one making everyone else feel special. Even when he was hurting the most.”
Nan’s thumb stroked the back of Aria’s hand—slow, deliberate.
“I’m not sure what’s going on between you two. Not all of it. But I see the way he looks at you. The way he softens when you’re near. So I need to know, love—do you love my grandson?”
The question landed soft but heavy. Aria felt her throat close. No point pretending. Not here. Not with Nan.
“Yes,” she whispered. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.”
Nan’s eyes filled—tears gathering but not falling. She squeezed Aria’s hand with surprising strength.
“Then don’t waste a moment,” she said. “Life is too short. I’m proof of that. Tell him. Soon. Before you run out of soon.”
Aria nodded, tears pricking her own eyes. “I promise.”
Nan exhaled—a small, satisfied sound. “Good girl.”
The door opened. Jax stepped back in, carrying two fresh cups of tea he’d clearly fetched as an excuse. He looked between them—suspicious, fond.
“Everything alright?”
Aria stood, brushing a quick kiss to Nan’s forehead. “Everything’s perfect. I just need to step out and make a call to my manager. They’ve been asking about the album tour dates. I need to let them know I can’t commit to anything until at least the new year. Not until we know more.”
Jax’s eyes softened—grateful, relieved. “Take your time.”
She squeezed his arm as she passed, then slipped out into the corridor.
The call to Robert was short. She kept her voice steady, professional. Explained the situation without detail. Robert was quiet for a moment, then said simply, “Family first. We’ll hold the schedule. Take care of yourself. And him.”
She ended the call, leaned against the wall for a long minute, breathing. Then she headed back to the flat alone.
That night she went to bed early—exhausted in a bone-deep way. She slipped under the covers, left the hall light on the way Nan always had. Sleep came fast.
Later—much later—she felt the mattress dip. Jax slid in behind her, careful not to wake her. He curled around her back, one arm slipping around her waist, face tucking into her hair. She stirred just enough to know he was there, then drifted deeper.
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Jax
He waited until her breathing evened out again—slow, soft, trusting—before he let himself settle.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains.
Aria lay on her side, one hand curled under her cheek, hair spilling across the pillow.
He watched her for a long time—chest rising and falling, lashes dark against her cheeks, mouth slightly parted in sleep.
His heart felt too full, too tender, like it might crack open if he breathed too deeply.
Nan had pulled him aside that afternoon, after Aria left to make her call. She’d waited until the nurse stepped out, then fixed him with that look she used when she wanted him to really listen.
“I needed to know you weren’t going to be alone,” she’d said quietly. “When I’m gone.”
Jax had opened his mouth to protest—habit, reflex—but she’d shaken her head.
“I knew Aria was the one when she came for Christmas. I’ve never seen you light up around anyone the way you do around her. Not even on the podium. Not even when you won the championship. You soften around her, Jaxon. You let yourself be soft. That’s precious.”
She’d reached for his hand—weak but insistent.
“Promise me something. No more playing the hero. No more trying to protect everyone else by carrying it all alone. Be honest. Let her in. Let her carry some of it with you.”
He’d swallowed hard. Nodded.
“I promise.”
She’d smiled then—small, tired, but real.
“I’m proud of you, love. So proud.”
Now, lying behind Aria in the quiet dark, he felt the truth of it settle into his bones.
He loved her.
Not in the big, dramatic way songs were written about. In the small, steady way that made him want to stay awake just to watch her breathe. In the way that made him want to be better—not for the cameras, not for the team, but for her. For them.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“I love you,” he whispered—so soft it barely disturbed the air.
She stirred faintly—murmured something unintelligible, shifted closer into his chest—but didn’t wake.
Jax exhaled—long, slow, releasing something he’d been holding for months.
He wrapped his arm more securely around her waist, tucked his face into her hair, and closed his eyes.
For the first time in weeks, sleep came easily.
He drifted off knowing exactly what he wanted.
Her.
Always her.