Chapter 34
Conor
I count Jaxon’s breaths for what feels like forever.
Slow inhales. Uneven exhales. Every now and then his body still jerks slightly in his sleep, like some part of him is trapped back in those memories.
I tighten my arms around him every time it happens.
Holding him closer against my chest, trying to ground him even unconscious.
Anger settles heavily beneath my ribs. It’s cold and sharp.
I’ve never actually helped someone through a panic attack before.
Not personally. The closest I’ve come was watching Declan with Xavier after the kidnapping.
Watching him pull Xavier back from terror piece by piece.
At the time, I understood its mechanics.
But understanding something and experiencing it are two very different things.
Seeing Jaxon like that—Shaking. Struggling to breathe. Lost somewhere inside his own head—It did something unpleasant to me. Because I couldn’t fix it immediately. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t tear apart the memories hurting him the way I can eliminate physical threats.
Jaxon needs more help than I can give him on my own.
The realization irritates me immediately.
Not because I think less of him for it, but because I want to be enough.
I want to give him everything he needs before he even has to ask for it.
I want to be his safety, stability, and peace.
Things the world has apparently denied him his entire life.
My hand slides slowly through his hair. He shifts closer in his sleep. Instinctively seeking me out. Something possessive twists in my chest at the movement.
Mine.
The thought comes easily now. Naturally. I press my lips against the top of his head and stare out into the darkness of the room. Because one thing is becoming painfully clear. I would do absolutely anything to keep this man safe.
The clock on my phone reads a little after six in the morning.
Jaxon has been asleep for more than eight hours.
I know because I haven’t slept much myself.
Not deeply anyway. Every sound he made immediately pulled me awake.
Thankfully, he never woke up screaming. But several times throughout the night he mumbled incoherently or whimpered softly in his sleep.
Every time it happened, I pulled him closer against my chest, ran my hand through his hair, pressed my lips to his forehead or temple.
Each time his body relaxed almost immediately afterward. Like some part of him recognized me even asleep. The realization settles heavily in my chest. Jaxon is curled tightly against my side now, one arm stretched across my stomach while his face is tucked into my neck.
Morning light spills softly through the curtains, bathing the room in muted gold.
It should feel peaceful. Instead, I find myself studying every faint crease of tension still lingering on Jaxon’s face.
Even asleep, he doesn’t fully relax. Like his body has forgotten how.
Anger flickers through me again. Directed at every person who helped put that haunted look in his eyes.
Every single person who taught Jaxon that safety was temporary.
My hand slides slowly up and down his back beneath the shirt he stole from me yesterday.
Possessiveness curls low in my chest at the sight of him wearing my clothes.
Another reaction I’m still learning to understand.
Jaxon shifts slightly in his sleep and presses even closer.
I tighten my hold on him automatically, careful not to wake him.
Because right now, resting peacefully in my arms, he looks younger somehow. Softer. Like the weight of the world finally loosened its grip on him for a few hours. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.
Holding onto Jaxon with one arm, I type out a message to Mom with the other.
Me: I think Jaxon needs to see a therapist.
I stare at the screen waiting for a response.
Mom has always been an early riser. Sure enough, the typing bubble appears almost immediately.
My fingers continue moving slowly through Jaxon’s hair while I wait.
I want her advice before he wakes up. I need a plan.
Last night was one of the few times in my life that I genuinely felt inadequate.
I didn’t know how to help him. Not really. I could ground him. Calm him down. Hold him together while the panic consumed him. But fixing the deeper problem? The years of trauma buried inside him? I don’t know how to do that.
Mom: Have you asked Jaxon if that’s what he wants?
I frown immediately.
Me: It’s what he needs.
The response comes quickly this time.
Mom: You can’t make that decision for him. He has to be willing to accept the help.
A growl leaves my throat before I can stop it. Beside me, Jaxon shifts slightly in his sleep. Instantly, I still. Waiting until he settles again before looking back at my phone.
I understand what Mom is saying. Intellectually, it makes perfect sense.
Jaxon has spent most of his life having choices taken away from him.
Forcing him into therapy would only be another version of that.
I know this. Yet every instinct inside me rebels against simply waiting while he suffers.
I want to solve the problem, eliminate it, protect him from it.
And the fact that I can’t is becoming increasingly frustrating.
Me: If he agrees, do you have a contact?
Mom: Yes, contact me when he does and I will arrange for him to come to you
I set my phone back on the nightstand. The screen goes dark. Leaving me alone with a conversation I now need to have and no idea how Jaxon is going to react to it.
I don’t do variables. I don’t like them.
In my life, I deal in facts, data, and known outcomes.
Whether it’s target acquisition or business negotiations, the process is always the same.
Gather information. Assess risk, then follow the most logical course of action. Simple and efficient. Predictable.
Emotions complicate things. Trauma complicates things even more. There’s no clear line of thinking here. No guaranteed outcome. No way to calculate how Jaxon will react if I bring up therapy. He might agree, or he might shut down completely. He might think I see him as broken.
The thought irritates me immediately, because that’s not what I think at all.
Jaxon survived things that would have destroyed most people.
That doesn’t make him weak. If anything, it makes him one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.
But surviving isn’t the same thing as healing. Last night proved that.
My gaze drops to the man sleeping against me. Morning light spills across his face, softening the sharp lines tension usually leaves there. Even asleep, he stays close to me. Trusting me enough to let his guard down. Another variable, and one I never expected.
Because somewhere along the way, helping Jaxon stopped being about curiosity or obligation. Now the thought of failing him feels almost unbearable. And that is very unfamiliar territory for me.
Jaxon stirs against me and slowly opens his eyes. For a moment he simply stares at me. Sleepy and disoriented. Soft in a way he rarely allows himself to be when fully awake. Then awareness settles in. I feel the exact moment he remembers where he is. Who he’s curled up against.
He immediately tries to pull away. I don’t let him. Tightening my arms around him, I run my fingers slowly through his hair. The tension leaves him almost instantly.
“How do you feel?” I ask quietly.
“Fine.” The answer comes far too quickly to be the truth.
I raise an eyebrow slightly. “What’s wrong, A Chroí?”
He hesitates, just for a second. Then he lets out a long breath against my chest. The warm air tickles my skin. My hand stills briefly in his hair. This is where he belongs. Like my mind settled on that fact days ago, and is only now bothering to inform me.
“I haven’t slept that well in…” He trails off before shaking his head slightly.
“I don’t even know how long.” His voice is rough with sleep.
Honest in a way it rarely is when he first wakes up.
“Usually I wake up constantly.” His fingers tighten into a fist and then his hand goes flat on my chest. “Or the nightmares do.”
Something cold twists inside my chest at the quiet admission.
Because despite everything he survived, despite the military training and the controlled way he carries himself, Jaxon says it like he expects sleepless nights to simply be part of his life.
Like peace is something temporary. I tighten my hold on him slightly.
“You slept,” I tell him. My fingers brush his temple gently. “And when the nightmares started bothering you, I handled it.”
Jaxon goes very still at that.
“But that means you didn’t sleep.” His brow furrows. “I’m sorry.”
I immediately hook a finger beneath his chin and lift his face toward mine.
“Don’t apologize.” The words come out firmer than I intend. “I told you I’m here for you.” My thumb brushes his cheek. “Even in your sleep.”
The tension around his eyes softens slightly. I lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his forehead. His stomach chooses that exact moment to betray him. The growl is loud enough that neither of us can pretend we didn’t hear it.
I stare at him. He stares back. Another growl follows. This one is somehow louder. A chuckle escapes me.
“Hungry?”
Jaxon opens his mouth. Presumably to deny it. Before he can, his stomach growls again. I laugh. Actually laugh.
“I’ll go make us some breakfast.”
“I…” Jaxon hesitates. Something uncertain flickers across his face. “I can cook.” He pushes himself up onto one elbow so he can face me fully. “I actually like it.”
The faintest shade of pink touches his cheeks. Barely noticeable. Yet impossible for me to miss. With his olive complexion and rugged features, the blush should look out of place. Instead, it makes him even more attractive.
“Are you sure you feel up to it?” I ask. “You’re still healing.”
“I’m good.” His answer comes immediately. “And I want to.” His fingers toy absently with the blanket. “You’ve been doing everything for me.” He glances away briefly before meeting my eyes again. “I’d like to do something for you.”
The blush deepens. Something warm settles inside me.
“Alright,” I say. His entire face brightens. The reaction is immediate. And suddenly breakfast seems like a very good idea.
In the kitchen, I take a seat at the island while Jaxon busies himself gathering ingredients from the refrigerator.
For such a large man, he moves with a natural grace that shouldn’t exist. I noticed it in the fights.
The fluidity. The control. But this is different.
There’s no tension in him now. Just Jaxon in my kitchen, comfortable enough to move around like he belongs here.
The realization is unexpectedly satisfying.
I watch him crack eggs into a mixing bowl.
His movements efficient and practiced. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth as he works.
My gaze lingers on him longer than necessary.
This would be a good time to bring up therapy.
Rationally, I know that. He’s calm and rested.
More relaxed than I’ve seen him since bringing him home.
Yet the words refuse to come. Because for the first time in days, he looks content. I don’t want to be the one who takes that away. So instead, I ask the first question that comes to mind.
“Where did you learn to cook?”
Jaxon glances over his shoulder. “The last group home I was in before I aged out and joined the Marines.” He returns his attention to the bowl. “One of the staff members ran cooking classes a few nights a week.”
The smile returns briefly. Softer this time. More nostalgic.
“Mostly because teaching a bunch of teenage boys to cook was easier than doing the cooking every night.”
A huff of laughter escapes me. “Practical.”
“Very.”
He starts whisking the eggs. “I figured out pretty quickly that if I learned how to cook, I got first crack at eating it.”
I can picture it. Teenage Jaxon standing in a crowded kitchen. Watching everything and everyone around him. Pretending his motivation was food. Pretending it was about getting an extra taste before dinner. But I don’t think that’s what it was really about. Not entirely.
Jaxon has spent most of his life surviving.
Moving from one foster home to another, one group home to the next.
Never knowing how long he’d stay. Never knowing who would leave next.
Cooking wasn’t just a skill. It was independence.
One more thing nobody could take away from him.
He was learning how to take care of himself.
How to be self-sufficient in a world where he’d never had anyone he could truly rely on.
The thought leaves an unpleasant weight in my chest.
Jaxon places a plate in front of me. The omelet takes up most of it. Loaded with vegetables, cheese, and something that smells incredible. He takes the seat beside me with his own plate and immediately starts eating. I take a bite. Then another.
“Jesus.”
Jaxon looks up. “What?”
I point my fork at him. “This is really good.” Another bite disappears. “Feel free to cook for me anytime.”
The faint pink already lingering on his cheeks immediately deepens. By the time it reaches his ears, I’m fighting back a smile. I swear the man blushes easier every day.
“Do you not cook?” he asks.
“I do.” I shrug. “Just nothing like this.”
“That’s a very diplomatic way of saying your cooking isn’t great.”
“My cooking is perfectly edible.”
Jaxon laughs. The sound does something pleasant to my brain.
“Mom had Franklin teach all of us,” I continue. “I just don’t enjoy it.”
“So you learned under protest?”
“Absolutely.”
“That explains a lot.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He just smiles and takes another bite. The conversation flows easily after that. Easier than it has any right to. We talk about my work, about the company. About some of the ridiculous situations my brothers have found themselves in over the years.
Jaxon tells me stories from his time in the Marines. Nothing overly detailed. Just enough for me to catch glimpses of the man he was before everything fell apart. Proud of what he accomplished.
I notice something else too. Every time the conversation drifts near Trent, Jaxon redirects it. He’ll talk about the military, foster homes, and his construction jobs. But the second the conversation gets too close to Trent, he pivots. Changes the subject.
As if there’s a wall there he isn’t willing to let me climb over yet. For now, I let it stand. Because, unlike most things in my life, Jaxon isn’t something I can force. And for some reason, I find that I’m willing to wait.