Chapter 33
Jaxon
Spending time with Xavier and Colton is an adventure.
An exhausting one, but an adventure nonetheless.
Xavier seems physically incapable of being quiet for more than a few minutes at a time.
His enthusiasm for practically everything is relentless.
We’ve talked about books, movies, and food.
He’s asked a hundred questions about my knitting.
Colton, on the other hand, is calm in a way I don’t think I’ll ever be.
He’s steady and patient. Content to let Xavier talk himself in circles while occasionally adding a comment that somehow manages to derail the conversation entirely.
They complement each other perfectly. Xavier’s energy fills every room he enters. Colton’s presence grounds it.
Watching them together is oddly enlightening. Not because they are similar. Quite the opposite. They are completely different people. Yet somehow their friendship works effortlessly. Like they’ve found a balance that neither of them realized they needed until they had it.
A strange sensation curls in my chest. I watch Xavier animatedly explain something while Colton listens with the long-suffering patience of a saint. Neither of them seems aware of it. The ease between them, the trust. The certainty that the other person will always be there.
What would it be like to have a friendship like that?
A real one. The kind that survives distance, time, and hardship.
I’ve never had it. Never had the chance.
My childhood was spent moving from one foster home to another.
One group home to the next. Staying just long enough to learn the rules before they changed again.
Just long enough to recognize faces before they disappeared.
The schools changed, the people changed. Over and over again.
Making friends requires time and consistency.
I never had any of those things. So I learned not to bother.
Learned not to get attached. It was easier that way.
At least that’s what I told myself. Yet as I watch Xavier throw his head back laughing at something Colton said, I know I missed out on more than I realized. And deep down it hurts.
The sound of the front door opening cuts Xavier off mid-sentence. Which is impressive considering I’m fairly certain the man can talk through almost anything.
All three of us turn toward the foyer. Conor walks in first, Declan right behind him. Both men look composed. Their expressions completely unreadable. If I hadn’t spent the last few days around this family, I would have assumed nothing had happened at all.
Then Declan’s eyes find Xavier. The change is instant. It’s subtle but impossible to miss once you know to look for it. His shoulders loosen. The hard set of his jaw eases. And just like that, he looks less dangerous. Xavier apparently notices it too.
“Declan!” The squeal that leaves him is so unexpected that I bark out a laugh.
Xavier is already on his feet. Crossing the room at an alarming speed.
Declan barely has time to brace himself before Xavier launches into him.
Declan catches him automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times before. Probably because he has.
“You’re back,” Xavier says it as if Declan has been gone for weeks instead of a few hours.
“I was gone four hours.”
“It was a very long four hours.”
Colton doesn’t even look up from where he’s sitting. “He’s been checking the clock.”
“Traitor.”
“You know I’m right.”
I laugh again. Because for all the darkness in this family, moments like this seem just as common. Maybe more so.
Conor comes straight to me. He stops in front of where I’m sitting and cups my face in his hands.
The gesture is gentle and somehow familiar.
My breath catches anyway. The noise in the room fades.
It all drifts into the background. Right now, all I see is Conor.
All I hear is him. His green eyes search my face.
As if he’s been thinking about me all evening.
“I missed you,” he says quietly.
The words hit me harder than they should. Before I can think of a response, he leans down and kisses me. It’s soft and unhurried. He has absolutely no problem showing affection in front of the people closest to him. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The kiss ends far too quickly.
“Aww.” Xavier’s dramatic sigh shatters the moment. The room immediately rushes back into focus. Heat floods my face.
“Oh my God,” Colton mutters.
“They’re adorable,” Xavier argues.
“You’re impossible,” Colton says, grabbing his messenger bag.
Mortified, I bury my face against Conor’s shoulder. The laughter that follows only makes my embarrassment worse. Though judging by the way Conor’s arms tighten around me, he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
As the others leave, Conor leads me back to the couch.
His hand stays at the small of my back. Guiding me.
Grounding me. Yet the closer we get to the couch, the tighter the knot in my stomach becomes.
His face is unreadable. It scares me a little.
I’ve learned enough about Conor to know that when he’s deliberately hiding something, I’m probably not going to like what comes next. I sit down and look up at him.
“Just give it to me straight, Conor.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Rip the bandage off.”
He studies me for a moment before taking the seat beside me. “You don’t have to worry about Henry anymore.” Relief hits first, fast and immediate. Followed almost instantly by dread. Because that’s not all he’s going to say. I can see it in his eyes.
“He can’t hurt you again,” Conor continues. I swallow hard but nod for him to go on. “Your debt to Manny was a hundred thousand.” My stomach drops. “But that fuckwad wasn’t paying all of your winnings toward it.”
Anger flashes through me. Somehow I’m not surprised.
“He gambled a lot of it away instead.”
Of course he did. Of fucking course he did.
Conor’s jaw tightens. “There’s still around thirty thousand on Manny’s books.”
My whole body tenses. Thirty thousand. The number echoes through my head. Thirty thousand dollars. My heart feels like it stops, then starts beating twice as hard.
I don’t have that kind of money. Not even close. My mind immediately starts running through numbers anyway. But it’s pointless. There isn’t enough.
All the money I should have had saved from my years in the military went into an account with Trent.
An investment for our future, or at least that’s what he’d called it.
Our future. I remember sitting beside him while he talked about houses and vacations and the life we were supposedly building together.
I trusted him completely. Like a fucking idiot. When he died, I lost access to everything. Every fucking cent. The account wasn’t in my name, just his.
At the time, I was too consumed by grief to even think about money. Then later, when I finally did it was too late. It was already gone, locked away behind legal walls I couldn’t break through. Just another mess Trent left me to deal with. Another way he managed to fuck me over, even after death.
My chest tightens. Thirty thousand dollars. The number feels suffocating. Because no matter how safe Conor and his family make me feel, debt like that doesn’t just disappear. Men like Manny Deluga don’t simply let things go.
“Hey, hey, Jaxon, calm your breathing down.” Conor’s arms wrap around me. “It’s going to be okay.”
I try. I really do. I focus on his voice. On the warmth of his body. On the hand rubbing slowly up and down my back. But I can’t catch my breath.
Everything presses in at once. It’s too much, too loud, too heavy. My chest burns. The room blurs around the edges. And suddenly I’m not here anymore.
I’m seven years old, locked in a dark closet. My stomach aches so badly from hunger that I don’t even have the energy to cry anymore. I can smell the mildew and dust. The stale air clings to my skin.
I’m twelve, standing in a destroyed kitchen while my foster parents scream at me for something I didn’t do because insurance money matters more than I do.
I’m sixteen, trapped in a locker room with nowhere to run while laughter echoes off the walls around me. Hands grabbing. Voices taunting. Humiliation burning through me.
I’m nineteen, standing in the middle of a battlefield, watching people die for the first time. The sound of gunfire is deafening. Blood. Smoke. Screaming. Terror.
Memory after memory crashes into me so fast I can’t separate them anymore. All the pain, fear, and helplessness, it all tangles together until I can’t tell what is past and what is present.
“Jaxon.” Conor’s voice cuts through the chaos. His hands tighten around me. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. “Breathe for me, A Chroí.”
I try to listen. Try to focus on him instead of the memories dragging me under. But they’re too strong, too loud. They claw their way through me, pulling me deeper and deeper until I can’t tell where the past ends and the present begins.
I’m too hot. Sweat clings to the back of my neck and dampens my shirt. Yet my body won’t stop shaking. Violent tremors tear through me hard enough that my teeth chatter. My lungs burn, every breath feels too shallow. Like there’s not enough air in the room. Not enough space. Not enough anything.
The abyss of my life yawns open beneath me. It’s endless and so dark, filled with every horrible thing that’s ever happened to me. Every abandonment. Every betrayal. Every moment, I learned exactly how little I mattered to the people around me. And I’m falling straight into it.
“Jaxon.” Conor’s voice cuts through the chaos again. Closer this time. His hands frame the back of my head and neck, holding me against him. “Stay with me.”
Then Conor is kneeling in front of me. His large hands cup either side of my face. “Give me five things you see.”
I try to take a breath. I know this technique. I’ve used it myself before, in therapy, after nightmares. After panic attacks that left me shaking on bathroom floors or locked in my truck trying not to lose my mind.
I open my mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out except a strangled cry.
“Five things you see, Jaxon.” Conor’s voice is firmer this time, calm and controlled. Leaving no room for my spiraling thoughts. His thumbs brush beneath my eyes. Pulling my focus back to him.
“Your eyes,” I choke out. My breathing stutters again. “The TV… the chair…” I force myself to look around the room. “Coffee table. Lamp.”
“That’s good, A Chroí.” The praise settles somewhere deep in my chest. “Four things you can feel.”
I swallow hard. “My shirt… the couch…” I curl my fingers against the cushions beneath me. “My pants. Your hands.”
“That’s it.” His voice stays low and steady. Like he knows exactly how close I am to falling apart again. “Give me three things you hear.”
I focus. Really focus. Pulling myself away from the memories piece by piece.
“Air conditioner,” I whisper. My breaths are still shaky, but they no longer feel impossible. “Clock. Your breathing.”
Conor nods. His forehead nearly touches mine now. Keeping me here. Keeping me present. By the time he asks me what I can taste, my breaths are no longer coming out in panicked gasps. The room feels real again. And the abyss finally loosens its grip on me.
His kiss against my forehead is the first thing that feels real since the panic attack started.
The pressure of it cuts through the lingering fog in my head better than the grounding exercise did.
Better than counting breaths. Better than forcing myself to name objects in the room while my mind tried to drag me backward.
Conor’s lips linger for a second longer than necessary.
My eyes slide shut. Exhaustion crashes into me all at once, leaving me wrung out and shaky.
Conor’s hands remain on me. One cupping the side of my neck. The other rubbing slowly up and down my back. Never demanding more from me than I can give.
“There you are,” he murmurs quietly. The words do something painful to my chest. Because no one has ever sounded relieved to have me back before.
I only vaguely register Conor pulling me to my feet. One arm wraps securely around my waist while the other keeps hold of my hand. Guiding me. Supporting me. My limbs feel heavy, boneless. Like the panic attack drained everything out of me and left nothing behind.
The walk to the bedroom is a blur. Soft lighting.
The quiet creak of the floor beneath our feet.
The steady warmth of Conor beside me. That’s all I can really process.
He helps me into bed with a gentleness that still catches me off guard every time.
Pulling the blankets over me. Making sure I’m settled before climbing in beside me.
I barely register the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
Barely feel his arm slide around my waist and pull me against his chest. But subconsciously, I move closer.
Seeking him out even in my exhausted haze.
Sleep drags at me hard and fast. Pulling me under before my mind can spiral again.
The last thing I feel before darkness takes me is Conor pressing another kiss against my hair.
And for once, falling asleep doesn’t feel lonely.