Chapter 40
Conor
Five o’clock comes too soon. Jaxon and I spend the day doing very little. Lunch on the back deck. Jaxon reading while I handle coordinating with Ronan. All very domesticated. The thought would have horrified me a month ago. Having someone else in my space has never appealed to me. Ever.
People are disruptive, noisy, and demanding.
Even the people I care about are generally easier to tolerate in limited doses.
Yet all day I find myself seeking Jaxon out.
At one point, I carry my laptop outside and set up at the table simply because that’s where he is.
Not because I need anything from him. Not because we’re talking.
He’s stretched out on one of the loungers with a book. I’m reviewing Ronan’s reports.
Every time I look up, I know exactly where he is.
Sometimes he’s reading. Sometimes he’s asleep.
Once, I catch him watching me over the top of his book.
He immediately looks away, as though he’d been caught doing something inappropriate.
I pretend not to notice. The behavior repeats three more times throughout the afternoon. Endearing.
Another word I never expected to apply to another human being.
The strange thing is that being around him doesn’t feel intrusive.
It doesn’t feel like work. It doesn’t even feel unusual anymore.
As though my brain has already accepted his presence as a permanent variable.
The realization should concern me. Instead, I find myself wondering if he’ll want to sit out here again tomorrow.
A car pulls through the front gates. Then another. The sound drags me from my thoughts. Five o’clock. Reality has arrived.
Jaxon helps Colton set the table while Mom unpacks the sandwiches.
Nothing heavy, just enough food to keep everyone occupied while we discuss business.
Colton is in the middle of explaining the horrors of potty training.
Apparently, children are capable of weaponizing bodily functions.
The conversation is far more detailed than I ever needed it to be.
Jaxon listens to every word. Most people would be looking for an escape route by now. Instead, he asks questions. Actual questions. The kind that suggests he’s genuinely interested in the answer. I find myself watching him. His attention never wavers.
The corner of his mouth lifts when Colton describes one particularly disastrous incident involving Ollie and an expensive rug. But it’s something else that catches my attention.
Every time Colton talks about Ollie, Jaxon’s expression changes. Only slightly. A fraction of a second, and then it’s gone. I don’t know what it means.
Across the table, Ronan sits with his laptop open and a small tablet propped beside it. Every minute or so, his eyes flick toward the screen. Then back to his work. Then back again.
“What’s with the tablet?” I ask.
Ronan doesn’t even look up. “Xavier and Jess are babysitting.”
I wait. Ronan finally glances up. “And?”
“And I have the live feed on the tablet.”
I stare at him. He stares back.
“Ronan.”
“What?”
“You realize that’s insane.”
“Incorrect.” His eyes return to the screen. “It’s responsible.”
Across the table, Dad snorts, and Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. Colton just shakes his head.
“It’s been an hour,” Liam points out.
“One hour and seven minutes.” The answer comes entirely too fast. Apparently, fatherhood has broken Ronan.
“You have a problem with Xavier watching Ollie?” Declan asks with a tone in his voice that no one could mistake for humor.
Ronan glances up from his laptop.
“Has Xavier ever raised a baby, or Jess, for that matter? No, they have not. What if something happens and they don’t know what to do?”
“Babe, they could probably figure it out because it’s on the three-page list of instructions you had them read and sign.” The amusement in Colton’s voice is obvious. Ronan ignores it. Most people would be embarrassed. Ronan appears immune to embarrassment when it comes to Ollie.
I shift my attention to Jaxon. He’s smiling. Not the polite smile he gives strangers, a real one. His eyes move between Ronan and Colton as they continue their argument. I’ve noticed he does that around the family. Like he’s studying something, trying to understand it.
The tablet dings. Ronan immediately checks it. Declan groans. Liam mutters something about needing an intervention. Jaxon’s smile widens. The expression from earlier appears again, only for a second. Then it’s gone. I still don’t know what it means. I don’t like not knowing things.
Dinner is over, and a blueprint of the meeting location is laid out across the table. The shift in atmosphere is immediate. The joking stops, the laughter disappears. Even Ronan finally closes the tablet.
Duncan stands at the head of the table explaining positions, routes, and contingencies.
Everyone listens. Jaxon more than most. His eyes stay locked on the papers spread out before him.
Most civilians would be overwhelmed. Jaxon studies the layout the same way I imagine he studied mission briefings in the Marines.
Looking for weaknesses. Looking for things that don’t fit.
His gaze flicks to Duncan. Then back to the blueprint. His brow furrows. His teeth catch his bottom lip. I’ve spent enough time watching him to recognize the behavior. He’s done it several times, usually right before asking a question.
“What is it, Jaxon?” I ask.
“Huh? What?” His head snaps up. Surprised.
A small smile threatens to pull at the corner of my mouth. For a man who notices everything, he can be remarkably unaware when people are watching him.
“I can tell you want to say something.” I tap the blueprint.
“What is it?”
His eyes move to Duncan. Then to me. Then back to the table. He’s still debating whether he should speak. He hasn’t realized yet that no one at this table cares where an idea comes from, only whether it’s useful. He hesitates for another beat.
“You are splitting the manpower here and here.” He points to two spots on the map. “But see this?” His finger taps an outbuilding near the rear of the property. “That’s a reinforced outbuilding. Even if you use a heat scan, it won’t pick up through those walls.”
The room goes quiet. Not because anyone disagrees, but because everyone is listening. Jaxon stops and looks up at Duncan, then back down at the blueprint. As though he’s still deciding whether he should continue.
“If I were Manny, I would have extra manpower in there just in case. The man door is less than three feet from the access point to the main floor.”
His finger traces the route. I watch the transformation happen in real time. The uncertainty disappears. The hesitation vanishes. This is familiar territory for him. It’s strategy, risk assessment, and threat analysis. For the first time since he arrived here, Jaxon looks completely comfortable.
Duncan leans over the blueprint. Ronan abandons his laptop entirely. Nobody interrupts. Nobody dismisses him.
Because the moment Jaxon started talking, he stopped sounding like a man caught in the middle of a problem. He started sounding like someone trained to solve them. Duncan studies the building for several seconds. Then nods once.
“Good catch.”
Jaxon immediately looks uncomfortable again. As though being complimented is somehow worse than discussing a potential ambush.
“Finn, make sure that door is blocked. Call Taylor. He’s getting the gear from the compound. See if he has something that will work.”
“On it.”
“Is there anything else you see?” Duncan asks.
“No, everything else is good,” Jaxon answers immediately, but he doesn’t look up.
A few minutes ago, he was pointing out flaws in a tactical plan in front of a room full of people he barely knows.
Now he’s staring at the blueprint like he wants it to swallow him whole.
Duncan makes a note on the map and moves on.
Just like that, Jaxon’s assessment is accepted and incorporated into the plan.
My gaze drifts back to him. The former Marine who somehow believed he had nothing to contribute.
The man who spent the last several days questioning his own worth.
Yet within seconds, he identified a vulnerability the rest of us missed.
Something tight settles in my chest. Something unfamiliar.
It’s not the usual possessiveness or protectiveness.
It’s something else. I recognize it a moment later.
Pride.
I’m proud that he spoke up. Proud that he trusted his instincts. Proud that when it mattered, he didn’t stay silent. Most of all, I’m proud that everyone at this table now sees what I’ve been seeing from the beginning. Jaxon is far more capable than he gives himself credit for.
At 6:45 sharp, Declan, Finn, Ronan, and Dad leave to take their positions around the warehouse. Once in place, they’ll relay information back to us. Mom and Colton head back to Ronan’s place. The room grows quieter after they leave. More focused. The countdown has begun.
I find my attention drifting to Jaxon. Not difficult considering I’ve spent most of the day doing exactly that.
He picks up the Kevlar vest and slips it on without assistance.
Most people fumble with unfamiliar equipment.
Jaxon doesn’t. His movements are efficient.
He tightens one strap. Then another. Checking the fit with a quick tug before adjusting it again.
The precision catches my attention. Every movement he makes has a purpose, no wasted motion, no hesitation. The same way he studied the blueprint. The same way he moves through a kitchen. The same way he made a bed this morning.
Years of training made visible through muscle memory.
For a moment, it’s easy to picture him in uniform.
Preparing for a mission. Running through equipment checks.
Making sure everything is exactly where it needs to be before stepping into danger.
Most people become nervous when faced with violence.
Jaxon becomes focused. The last traces of uncertainty disappear from his expression as he secures the final strap.
I hate that it is. The thought appears unexpectedly. The twist in my gut is sharp. Immediate. I don’t want him to be comfortable putting on body armor. I don’t want him to have years of experience preparing for situations like this. Yet here he is.
My gaze lingers on him a second longer than necessary.
Because, despite everything, I find the sight strangely compelling.
Jaxon, preparing for a fight, is a very different man from the one who curled against me this morning.
Both are real. Both are him. And I find myself equally fascinated by each.
Jaxon and I sit in the back of the SUV as Duncan drives.
The interior is quiet except for the occasional crackle of a radio that breaks through the hum of the engine.
Updates, position checks, and confirmations.
Everything is proceeding according to plan.
We’ve been over every detail, every route, and every contingency.
Everyone knows their assignment. Everyone knows where they’re supposed to be.
I reach across the space between us and take Jaxon’s hand. His fingers immediately tighten around mine. Giving his hand a squeeze, I wait until he looks over at me. The streetlights passing outside throw shifting shadows across his face.
“I won’t let anything happen to you.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I’ve already told him this multiple times. Logically, there is no reason to repeat it. Jaxon heard me the first time. Yet I continue saying it. The behavior is irrational, and I dislike it, especially in myself.
His thumb brushes across the back of my hand.
The movement is small—barely noticeable—yet somehow more effective than any verbal response.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. I stare out the window, watching the city pass by.
Ignoring the uncomfortable truth sitting in the center of my chest. The repetition isn’t for Jaxon. It’s for me.