Chapter 9
Jaxon
Sunday afternoons are usually my favorite part of the week, the one stretch of time that actually feels like it belongs to me after everything else has been handled and checked off my list. All my errands are done, and my apartment is clean.
There’s nothing left pulling at me, nothing left demanding my attention. It’s supposed to be my time.
I usually curl up on the couch with my latest knitting project or lose myself in a good romance novel, letting the quiet settle around me in a way that almost feels like peace, like for a few hours I can pretend my life is something softer than what it actually is.
Usually. But not today. Today I can’t sit still, my mind too loud, my body too wired. It’s been two days since the fight, and just like I told Conor, Mr. Savior-wannabe himself, stepping in didn’t fix anything. It made things worse.
I pick up my latest MM romance, flipping it open to where I left off, trying to sink into it the way I normally would, trying to let someone else’s story drown out my own. It has everything I’ve ever wanted.
A main character who is completely devoted, who chooses his partner every single time without hesitation, who builds a life around him instead of treating him like something disposable.
He takes care of him as if he matters, like he’s worth protecting.
There’s softness in it. Intimacy that isn’t rushed or taken, but given.
Time spent afterward just being together, like the connection doesn’t end the second things get quiet. It’s everything I don’t have, everything I’ve never had and probably never will.
The words start to blur after a few pages, my eyes moving over them without actually taking anything in, my mind dragging me back to the same place over and over again, no matter how hard I try to focus. The fight. Henry. Conor. That feeling of being watched.
I snap the book shut with more force than necessary and drop it beside me, scrubbing a hand over my face as the anxiety settles heavier in my chest instead of easing.
Knitting isn’t any better. I try anyway, picking it up out of habit, letting the familiar motions take over, but even that doesn’t help. The rhythm is broken by the constant loop of thoughts that won’t shut up.
Nothing is working, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is about to go very, very wrong.
I give up after a few minutes and reach for my phone, unlocking it just to stare at the screen again, at the messages.
Not that I expect it to be different. Not that I think it’s magically changed since the last time I read it five minutes ago.
But I check anyway. Because I can’t seem to stop myself.
Henry: You fucked up Friday
Henry: The debt belongs to you
Henry: Manny is not happy
Henry: Come to the warehouse on Wednesday 7 PM, don’t be late
I let my head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of everything presses down harder the longer I sit there.
I know Conor meant well. But this is still fucked up.
I should have just taken that last fight and been done with it, taken whatever came with it and moved on, because at least then it would have been over.
But I remember how I felt. The way my body was already giving out on me.
The way my vision kept wavering, the edges going dark told me I was closer to dropping than I wanted to admit.
I wouldn’t have won. And I know I would have gotten hurt. Badly.
Still, part of me thinks that would have been easier than this.
Easier than sitting here waiting, knowing I’m going to have to face Manny again, knowing there’s a cost coming, and having no idea what it’s going to be.
How much is this going to cost me? My life?
The thought sits there, heavy and suffocating.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, pushing myself up off the couch because sitting here thinking about it isn’t helping anything. It’s almost dinner time, and the hunger finally cuts through the anxiety just enough to get me moving.
I meal prep every week to keep things simple and controlled, but the thought of eating any of it right now makes my stomach turn. I need something different. Something that feels like a choice.
I head to my room and change into jeans and a t-shirt, the fabric sliding over my skin, catching slightly against the raised edges of my scars, a reminder that I can’t escape no matter how much I try not to think about them.
Because who the hell is going to look at me and see anything else?
Six foot seven. Two hundred and sixty pounds.
A body built for fighting. And on top of that, I’m a bottom.
Just one more reason. One more thing stacked against me.
Not that anyone would ever guess that just by looking at me. Add in the scars, the damage, the history written across my skin, and whatever chances I might have had feel like they drop straight to zero.
The Marines were supposed to be my family, my place, my people.
Trent made sure that didn’t last. Now all I’ve ever really wanted feels even further out of reach.
A house. Something quiet and steady. Kids running around in the backyard.
A husband coming home at the end of the day to a warm meal, a clean space, and someone who is there for him without question. Someone who chooses him.
I want that. I want to be loved. But people look at me and don’t see any of that. They see the Marine. They see the scars. They see the size, the hard edges, the parts of me that look like they belong in a fight instead of a home. And they think they already know everything there is to know.
In truth, what I want doesn’t match what people see when they look at me.
I want to be taken care of. A submissive, or pillow princess, like in one of my books.
The thought slips in quiet and stubborn, something I’ve tried to ignore more times than I can count, something I tell myself is unrealistic, that it doesn’t fit with who I am or the life I’ve ended up in. But it doesn’t go away.
I want someone who sees past all of this and doesn’t just tolerate me, but wants me.
Someone who can take control when I don’t have anything left to give, who doesn’t hesitate, who doesn’t doubt, who doesn’t look at me like I’m too much or not enough at the same time.
And then afterward, when everything settles, when the noise in my head finally quiets, I want the opposite of that intensity.
Something soft. Something steady. A hand brushing over my skin without expecting anything in return, a presence that stays instead of disappearing the second it’s over.
I know how it sounds. I know it doesn’t line up with the image people have of me, and maybe I should stop feeding into it.
Stop reading about things that feel so far out of reach for me; they might as well be fiction.
Because for a few minutes, it lets me imagine a version of my life where I’m not just surviving but wanted.
Exiting my apartment building, I’m hit with the warm afternoon air, the kind that settles over your skin and makes everything feel a little slower, a little heavier. I don’t live in the best neighborhood, but it’s not the worst either. It’s manageable.
I decide to walk to the little café down the street, needing something to get me out of my head for a while, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
They have a decent selection of hot and cold sandwiches, nothing fancy but always solid, and the best red velvet cupcakes I’ve ever had. That alone is reason enough to go.
The bell above the door jingles when I step inside, and the smell hits me instantly: warm bread, sugar, coffee, all of it wrapping around me in a way that feels almost comforting. I love to cook and to bake. But I never do it. What’s the point when it’s just me?
The thought passes through my mind as I step up to the counter and order a club sandwich and, of course, a cupcake, because I’m not about to pretend I came here for anything else.
Once I have my food, I take a seat at a small table near the door, positioning myself so I can see everything that comes and goes without making it obvious. Old habits don’t go away. I watch people as they move in and out, letting my mind drift just enough to keep the edge off.
But it doesn’t last. That feeling creeps back in.
Someone is watching me. I shift slightly in my seat, scanning without turning my head too much, trying to pick out anything that feels out of place, but everything looks normal.
The more I think about it, the more I try to rationalize it, the more I start to wonder if it’s just me.
Paranoia. If it’s Manny’s people keeping tabs on me, making sure I don’t step out of line, making sure I remember exactly who I belong to.
That wouldn’t surprise me. Not even a little.
Either way, there’s not much I can do about it.
So I sit there, eat my sandwich, and pretend everything is okay. That I’m okay.
The bell rings out, sharp and familiar, and I look up without thinking.
Any sense of normalcy I had been clinging to disappears instantly.
Conor walks in like he belongs anywhere he steps, his presence cutting through the space without effort, drawing attention even from people who don’t realize they’re looking.
His hair is still perfect, like the chaos of life never touches him, and his body moves easily between the tables and chairs, controlled and confident in a way that makes everything around him feel smaller.
Like the room adjusts to him. Not the other way around.
My grip tightens slightly on my drink as I watch him, my attention locking in before I can stop it.
He’s exactly what someone like me shouldn’t want.
But exactly what I want: big, strong, and solid in a way that feels unshakable.
The fact that he’s bigger than me, even if it’s not by much, just adds to it in a way I don’t want to admit even to myself. I’ve learned my lesson on wanting the unattainable. And Conor is just that.
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down without asking, the scrape of metal against tile loud enough to draw a few glances. He moves like he has every right to be here, like this was always going to happen. I don’t acknowledge him. Not a word, not even a glance.
I pick up my sandwich instead and take a bite, focusing on that, on the taste, on anything that isn’t the man now sitting directly across from me.
If I ignore him, maybe he’ll go away. It’s a ridiculous thought, and I know it the second it crosses my mind, but I cling to it anyway, stubborn and childish to a degree I don’t have the energy to fight.
I’m a toddler. If I can’t see you, then you can’t see me.
I chew slowly, deliberately, pretending I don’t feel his presence, but I feel the weight of his attention pressing against me.