Chapter 35
Jaxon
The joy it brings me to not only cook for Conor but to watch him genuinely enjoy it is impossible to describe. He didn’t force compliments. Didn’t praise it because he thought I needed the encouragement. He actually liked it. The realization settles warmly in my chest.
I’ve spent so much of my life alone. Just surviving and existing.
Always wanting things I convinced myself I didn’t need.
I wanted a home, a family. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, someone to cook for.
To take care of. Someone who wanted to take care of me in return.
For the first time in a very long time, I can almost see it. Almost.
Conor insists on cleaning the kitchen. Apparently, cooking and cleaning are separate jobs in his mind.
I watch from the island as he loads the dishwasher with an almost concerning level of focus.
Every plate has a place. Every glass has an angle.
Every utensil is positioned with military precision.
It’s like watching an engineer construct a bridge.
Or a bomb technician dismantle an explosive.
“You know they’re just dirty dishes, right?”
Conor glances up. “There is an optimal way to load a dishwasher.”
“Of course there is.” He ignores my sarcasm.
The sight makes me smile. What would it be like to have this every day? Lazy mornings in bed, then breakfast together. Easy conversations that drift from one topic to another. The thought is so dangerous that I immediately push it away. Because wanting things has never ended well for me.
Conor finishes wiping down the last counter and turns toward me. The smile slips from my face immediately. His expression is serious. Like he’s been thinking about something for a while.
“I want to talk to you about something.” My stomach drops. “Let’s go sit on the couch.”
Just like that, every good feeling from the morning evaporates. My heart sinks. Henry is gone, but the debt isn’t. Thirty thousand dollars still hangs over my head.
I follow him into the living room, each step feeling heavier than the last. Because experience has taught me that serious conversations rarely end in my favor.
Is this it? Is he about to tell me it’s time to go?
That he helped me because he’s a good person, but now the problem is too complicated?
Too expensive? That I’m too much? The thought twists painfully in my chest. I lower myself onto the couch and brace for the worst.
Conor sits beside me and takes my hands in his. His thumb runs slowly over my scarred knuckles. The gesture should be comforting. Instead, it makes my stomach twist.
“Have you ever thought about therapy?”
The question catches me completely off guard. Therapy? Of all the directions I thought this conversation was going to go, that wasn’t one of them. My eyes immediately drop to our joined hands. I stare at the contrast between them. His large fingers wrapped around mine.
Last night’s panic attack flashes through my mind.
The complete loss of control. Heat creeps up my neck.
Of course this is why he’s asking about therapy.
He saw me fall apart, saw how damaged I really am.
I’m broken in his eyes. A problem that needs solving.
Something that needs to be fixed. The thought hurts more than it should.
“I’ve tried it before.” My voice sounds distant. I keep my gaze locked on our hands. Unable to look at him.
“The VA has therapists available after discharge.” My thumb rubs against the scar crossing my palm. “I went.”
The admission sits heavily between us. Because the truth is, I didn’t just try once. I wanted it to work. I really did.
“It didn’t help.” I shake my head. “Not with the nightmares. Not with the panic attacks.” My eyes remain fixed on our joined hands. “I felt like a number to the guy.”
Just a case file, another veteran sitting across from him. Another appointment to get through before lunch.
“And there were things that happened that I couldn’t talk about.” The words come out quieter. “Not with someone connected to the military.”
Trent. The name echoes through my head. There was no way I could have told a military therapist that part of my grief came from losing my lover. That I never got closure, or that some days I still didn’t know whether I was mourning Trent or mourning the future I’d thought we were building together.
“What about someone not connected to the military?”
My laugh is short, bitter. “With what money?” I finally look up at him. “Or insurance?”
Conor doesn’t hesitate. “I’m going to arrange for someone to come here and talk to you.”
“No.”
The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Conor blinks. Clearly not expecting the interruption.
“Jaxon—”
“No.”
I pull my hands free and stand. Suddenly unable to sit still. Unable to breathe.
“You’ve done enough already.” I pace toward the fireplace. “I can’t keep taking from you, Conor.”
Silence falls between us. Beneath my grief is something far more dangerous. Fear. The fear that he’ll eventually see me differently. That he’ll decide I’m too damaged. Too much work. Not worth the effort.
I’m so lost in those thoughts that I don’t realize Conor has crossed the room until he’s standing behind me. Gently, but without hesitation, he turns me to face him.
“You aren’t taking anything.” His vivid green eyes lock onto mine. “I’m willingly giving you everything.” The words steal the air from my lungs.
It’s strange having someone meet me eye-to-eye.
Most people don’t. Even Trent had been several inches shorter than me.
Being the biggest person in the room always came with expectations.
People assumed I wanted to be in charge.
Especially in the gay community. Large men were expected to take charge.
To dominate. People saw my size and assumed they knew what I wanted. What I needed. They were wrong.
The truth was, I’ve always craved the opposite. Not because I’m weak. Not because I can’t take care of myself. But because I’ve spent my entire life doing exactly that. Taking care of myself. Just surviving. Carrying everything alone.
Looking at Conor now, I realize that what draws me to him isn’t just his strength.
It’s the certainty. The way he takes control of a situation and makes me believe, if only for a moment, that I don’t have to carry the weight by myself.
My thoughts drift somewhere they probably shouldn’t.
To his hands. His voice. The way he says my name when he’s worried about me.
Heat creeps into my face. Because this conversation has nothing to do with sex.
Yet somehow my brain insists on making connections anyway.
He cups the side of my face with his large hand. His thumb brushes gently across my cheek. The gesture is so soft it almost hurts.
“Will you try again?” His eyes hold mine. “For me?”
Before I can even think through the question, I find myself nodding. The answer comes from somewhere deeper than logic. Somewhere beneath the fear. Beneath the pride. Beneath the part of me that has spent years pretending I could handle everything on my own. Because the truth is I want help.
I really do. God knows I haven’t done a very good job by myself.
I take a steadying breath. If Conor is going to keep helping me, then he deserves the truth.
All of it. Before I become even more attached to him.
Before I start depending on him in ways I can’t come back from.
He needs to know exactly who he’s dealing with.
“I need to tell you something.” The words shake coming out. I hate that they do. I hate that this still has the power to affect me.
“When I first got out, I realized that all the savings Trent had convinced me to give to him were no longer available to me.”
Shame immediately follows the admission. Because saying it out loud makes me feel stupid all over again. It shows him just how naive, gullible, and weak I really am.
“I was already spiraling.” I close my eyes. The memories wait there ready to drag me backward. Before they can, Conor’s arms come around me, pulling me against him. Grounding me. I let myself lean into him. Just for a moment. Just long enough to borrow some of his strength before I continue.
“I had nothing, and the thought of starting over was too much.” The words scrape their way out of my throat. “So I started drinking.” I let out a hollow laugh. “A lot.”
The memories come easier now. Not because they hurt less. Because I’ve finally opened the door.
“The fact that I was sitting alone in my shitty apartment every night should have been an indication of how bad things were getting.” I stare at a spot on the floor. Unable to look at him.
“But there was nobody there to tell me to stop.”
Conor’s arm tightens around my shoulders. The simple pressure keeps me anchored. It keeps me talking.
“Soon the drinking wasn’t enough.” I swallow hard. “One of the guys at a job site noticed I was having some back pain.” The corner of my mouth twists bitterly. “At least that’s how it started.”
I can still remember it. The casual offer. The fake concern. The way he acted like he was helping me.
“He offered me some pills.” My fingers curl into my palms. “The first ones didn’t do much.” I shake my head. “I even told him that.”
Looking back, it seems so obvious. So stupid.
“I didn’t realize it was a setup.” My voice drops. “He had a side business with some other guys.” The room feels smaller suddenly. The memories pressing closer.
“The next pills were stronger.” I close my eyes. “They knocked me out.” Silence stretches between us. “But before they did…” My voice breaks slightly. “They gave me a break.”
That’s the part I’m most ashamed of. Not taking them. Not even becoming dependent on them. It’s the relief I felt. The fact that for a few hours at a time, the grief quieted. The nightmares stopped. The loneliness faded into the background.