Chapter 18 Jason
Jason
Idon’t breathe for the first ten seconds she stands in front of me.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll breathe her in… her unique scent of citrus and the soft floral shampoo she uses, and something delicate beneath it—something that is her and no one else. And she’s dressed up, not fancy, but intentionally. Like this date matters.
Like I matter.
That’s enough to make my chest ache.
“Ready?” I ask, keeping my voice light so she doesn’t hear the way my pulse is hammering.
She nods shyly and reaches for my hand. I take it, not too fast, not too tight, but my insides are clenched with desire.
“Lead the way,” she whispers.
God. If only she knew how those words feel coming from her.
I guide her down the short path from her house, every instinct sharpening the moment her fingers slip into mine.
My awareness stretches outward, alert, mapping the world the way wolves do, even in a human skin.
The packed dirt and gravel beneath our feet shift with that familiar countryside crunch, and I adjust my pace so she never steps on the loose patches that like to slide underfoot.
A soft breeze drifts across the path, carrying the scent of grass and distant rain. It brushes her cheek, and she inhales, quiet and surprised. I tuck the sound away like something precious.
Her cane taps beside us, but tonight the rhythm is different.
Lighter. Hopeful.
I listen to everything: the dry whisper of grass, a faint windchime from a porch, a screen door creaking open down the lane, a truck engine far off, a night bird taking flight, a porch light buzzing against moth wings.
No hum of the city; none of the chaos that comes with it. Just countryside breathing around us.
I scan ahead with each step, mind mapping the terrain.
A raised crack in the pavement. A dip in the curb. A wash of loose stones. A mailbox leaning at an angle.
My senses cast a silent perimeter around her, checking everything before she reaches it, protecting her without her realizing it.
But what snags in my chest is her.
Her pulse flutters when my thumb brushes her hand. She tilts her head toward me when she listens, trusting heat and presence over sight. The longer we walk, the more her shoulders loosen, like the night itself is letting her breathe.
Because of me.
I shouldn’t want that as much as I do.
But I do.
God, I do.
We reach the beginning of the trail at the sanctuary.
The night opens around us, wide and endless. The kind of night that feels like the whole world is holding its breath.
The air is cool, brushing over my skin like a reminder that I’m alive, but when I’m with Violet, I don’t need that reminder. I feel it.
The scent of open fields drifts in—grass, damp soil, animals bedding down for the night. The wind moves through the tall grass with a soft, shivering whisper, and overhead the stars stretch across the sky, clean and bright.
I wish she could see it.
I mourn the fact that she can’t, but I don’t say it out loud.
She stands beside me, her face angled slightly upward, like she knows something magnificent is above her but can only feel its echo. It softens something deep in my chest. Hurts something too. Because I want to show it all to her.
But she turns toward my warmth and smiles, and suddenly the beauty above us feels small compared to that.
For the first time in years, I feel centered.
For the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like the world is slipping from under my feet.
Violet’s fingers tighten slightly around mine.
“Is it beautiful?” she asks softly, as if she’s afraid of the answer.
I swallow hard. “It’s…” My voice fails me. “It’s nothing compared to you.”
Her breath catches.
We walk in comfortable quiet, her hand warm in mine. The gravel softens into packed earth, and the sanctuary fields breathe around us. Every so often, her thumb brushes mine, a tiny stroke that feels anything but accidental to my pulse.
And then she says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She hesitates. “Why cooking?”
“Someone had to keep my friends alive.”
She laughs softly, but waits for the real answer.
“My friends and I were abandoned when we were kids,” I say.
She sucks in a breath. “I’m so sorry.”
I squeeze her hand. “We formed a bond out of unhappy circumstances. No one taught us anything normal. We learned how to survive, but not how to… live.” I guide her gently around a pile of animal scat. “Cooking felt like the first thing that opened the world a little instead of closing it.”
She tilts her face toward me, listening with her whole body. I’m always amazed at how deeply she listens.
“When I was cooking, I didn’t have to run from things trying to kill me. The stove was predictable. When you messed up, it told you. Burned you a bit, but it didn’t lie. And when you got it right…” I shrug. “You created something good.”
Her fingers tighten on mine. “Thank you for telling me that.”
The way she says it steadies something inside me that I didn’t know was shaking.
“You’re getting good at cooking,” I add. “Really good.”
She grins, her entire face lighting up, and God, it makes her even more beautiful.
We reach the clearing overlooking the far pasture. I spread out the blanket, set the basket down, and help her sit. She kneels carefully, fingers mapping the woven fabric.
“This is really nice, Jason,” she murmurs.
“You make it nice.” The words slip out before I can stop it.
She blushes a pretty pink that stains her cheeks in cute blotches.
We eat the simple meal I threw together—seasoned chicken, crisp vegetables, and warm bread. I pour her a small glass of wine, and she sniffs it, cataloging the crisp, floral scent the way others catalog color.
“It’s delicious,” she says. “The seasoning is perfect. And the vegetables—oh, I love that little crunch.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah? Good.”
Good. Good?
That’s what I go with?
But there are no words to describe how her enjoyment and her trust makes me feel.
“Even the little burnt bit is nice,” she says. “Adds character.”
I almost choke. I burned it, and she’s praising it.
No one has ever looked at a mistake I made and called it anything but a problem.
But she finds something good.
She swirls her wine. “Is this white wine?”
“Yeah. Fruity. Thought you’d like it.”
“I do,” she says softly. “It tastes like summer. Like something hopeful.”
My chest tightens. She’s talking about wine, but it feels like she’s talking about us.
I watch her eat, savor, smile—and something settles into me.
Not hunger. Not desire.
Home.
And that’s terrifying.
Eventually, she leans back on her hands. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“It’s been just over a year,” she says. “Since the accident. But things changed. It’s not just the blindness.
It’s everything that came with it. People didn’t mean to disappear, I don’t think.
They just… drifted. They didn’t know how to ‘be’ around me.
Conversations got shorter. Silences got longer.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped knowing where I fit anymore. It made for a lonely existence.”
She twists her hands in the blanket. “I still don’t fit in. Even with Hattie, I still don’t. Not completely.”
I move closer, giving her space to pull away—she doesn’t.
“I never told anyone that,” she whispers. “Not even my therapist.”
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For trusting me.”
She gives a shaky laugh. “It’s easier when I can’t see you.”
“I’m glad,” I admit, “because I don’t think I’m hiding how much that moved me.”
Her breath stutters.
“What about you?” she asks gently. “You said you and your friends were abandoned. How horrible.”
I freeze.
There is no safe version of my life story, but I want to give her something.
“I grew up in a commune,” I say. “Survival training camp pretending to be a community.”
I hate lying to her.
But I can’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“So yeah,” I continue, “my friends and I got left behind. Had to make our own way. We had no safety net.”
She inhales softly. “That sounds awful. Were you lonely?”
The question cuts right through me. “Yes,” I admit. “I still am, sometimes.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “That must have been so difficult. To feel like you had to carry everything alone.”
She doesn’t know how close she is to the truth.
“I guess I got used to it,” I say.
But what I don’t say is: Now that you’re here, it feels unbearable to go back.
Her fingers slide along the blanket until they find mine. “You make me feel less lonely. I hope I can do that for you.”
If I were any less controlled, I’d pull her into my arms and never let her go.
We sit for a long time, the night sounds humming around us—owls, wind in the grass, a distant whinny from a horse.
Then she says, small and embarrassed, “The scars from the accident… they’re not… pretty.”
I turn toward her. “Violet,” I say softly, “may I?”
She nods.
I brush my thumb along her cheek until I find the ridged patch of healed skin. She inhales sharply. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Just feels… different.”
“It feels like you fought,” I say. “And won.”
She trembles under my touch.
Slowly, giving her time to pull back, I press my lips to each of her eyes. She shivers, a soft sound escaping her throat.
“Jason…” she whispers.
“That part of you is beautiful,” I murmur.
She lets out a broken laugh. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“No,” I say. “You’re healing me. I hope I can do the same.”
She curls her fingers into my shirt. I stand, guiding her up with me, and she rises against my chest.
“What are we doing?” she asks, breathless.
“Dancing.”
“But there’s no music.”
“We don’t need it.”
We move to the rhythm of the night—the wind, our breaths, our pulse. She relaxes into me as we sway, and I smooth my hand down her spine.
She tilts her face up. “I could get used to this.”
So could I. And that terrifies me.
“I don’t want this to end,” she whispers.
“It doesn’t have to end tonight,” I say.
But some part of me knows it will. It has to.
And I don’t want it to.
As she sways in my arms, smelling like wine and warm breath and hope, the truth washes over me.
I might not be able to give this up.
Not her.
Not this.
Not us.
Even if it ruins everything.