Chapter 10 Jax
Chapter Ten: Jax
Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen. It’s too long either way.
I knock on Callum’s bedroom door with a soft two taps.
Nothing.
I wait another beat, then turn the handle slowly. The door opens without a sound.
I see her unmoving on the bed. It unfurls the dread in my chest. She’s asleep, curled slightly on her side, her sweater twisted around her ribs like she tried to get comfortable and gave up halfway. Her hair spills across the pillow in dark waves, and her breathing is slow. Even. Deep.
Relief hits me first. Clean and simple.
She’s safe. She’s sleeping. That’s good.
I should leave, close the door, and give her privacy.
Instead, I lean against the doorframe and watch her.
She looks so small in Callum’s bed. The comforter swallows her frame, and her hands are tucked under her chin. The room is quiet with her in it—a different kind of quiet. Not empty but settled.
My mind drifts back to the guest bedroom. The way she flinched when Zephyr and I touched her. The way her voice cracked when she said her dad went to Elle’s. The way she looked at me when she said, “I never want to go back.”
The rage pulses again. Low and controlled, but it’s there.
I breathe through it.
I can’t lose control. She’d never forgive me if I did. And I’d never forgive myself.
Sounds filter in from the rest of the house. Callum moving around in the kitchen. The creak of the couch springs—Zephyr sitting down. Pipes clicking somewhere in the walls. A car passes outside, tires hissing on pavement.
Ordinary sounds.
They feel too normal for what’s happening. Like the world doesn’t know it should stop and hold its breath for this girl.
Rules start forming in my head.
No touching unless she initiates.
No pressure.
No promises I can’t keep.
No calling authority figures yet—not until she’s ready.
No escalation unless she asks.
These are the lines I won’t cross. The boundaries I’ll hold even when my instincts scream at me to do more.
I push off the doorframe and step inside. Quietly. Carefully.
She kicked the blanket off at some point. It’s bunched near her feet, and her arms are bare. The house isn’t cold, but it’s not warm either.
I hesitate.
Then I reach down and pull the blanket back over her, tucking it gently around her shoulders.
She stirs. Just slightly. Her face scrunches, and she shifts deeper into the pillow.
My chest tightens.
My brain goes places I don’t want it to.
Her waking up afraid, looking around and not knowing where she is.
Her leaving quietly while we’re not paying attention, walking out the door and disappearing.
Her going back home, deciding it’s easier than this.
I hate that I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop imagining all the ways this goes wrong.
Footsteps in the hallway make me turn.
Callum appears, hair sticking up like he just woke from his own nap. He grins when he sees me standing there.
He whispers, “Dude, you gonna tuck her in and read her a bedtime story or—”
I level him with a look.
His grin falters. He reads the room.
“She okay?” he asks quietly.
“She’s sleeping.”
He nods and backs out of the doorway.
Zephyr joins us in the hallway a moment later. He doesn’t say anything. Just glances into the room, then back at me.
We all know we’re going to make sure she’s never hurt again.
No one says it out loud, but the agreement is there. Solid and unshakable.
Hours pass.
Slowly.
Tigerlily naps longer than I expected. The sun shifts across the floor, casting long shadows through the blinds. Callum makes noise in the kitchen—opening cabinets, rattling dishes. Zephyr scrolls through his phone on the couch.
I stay nearby.
She stirs around five.
I’m leaning against the wall across from the door when she sits up slowly. Her hair is messy, flattened on one side. She blinks at the room, disoriented, like she’s trying to remember where she is.
Her gaze lands on me.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just wait for her to come back to herself.
When she does, her shoulders relax.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.
She nods. Her voice is soft. “Yeah. Thanks for letting me rest.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
She looks down at her hands, then back up at me.
I push off the wall and step closer to the doorway.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask gently. “Or do you want quiet?”
She thinks about it.
“Quiet,” she says finally.
I nod. “Okay.”
I step back into the hallway and give her space.
But I stay close.
Because she might not want to talk right now. She might need quiet, need time, need distance from everything that’s happened.
But she doesn’t need to be alone.
Not anymore.
Not while I’m still breathing.