29. Domestic as Hell
Chapter twenty-nine
Domestic as Hell
Melina
It’s been less than two weeks, and I’m losing my mind. There are only so many card games I can play—so many instances I can reorganize the kitchen cabinets—before I seriously start considering stabbing Jax with a fork just to shake things up.
TV has become our primary source of entertainment, and lately we've been watching The Vampire Diaries, one of my all-time guilty pleasures. I’ve binged it a dozen times. Jax, on the other hand, had never seen it. Until now.
He didn’t want to watch it. The first time I hovered over it on HBOMax and glanced at him, he shut it down immediately.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
I gasped, full drama. “It’s so good. I promise you’ll love it.”
“Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.”
I turned in my seat and batted my eyelashes. “Pleaseee. For me?”
He sighed—already conceding the war—and shook his head in faux defeat.
“Should I just… give you my balls now?”
I squealed, clapped my hands, and hit play on episode one.
By the time Damon Salvatore strutted on-screen, he was groaning.
“Oh, God. Hot vampires. Seriously?”
“There are girl ones too.”
“Well, thank fuck for that.”
“And werewolves. And witches.”
“And leprechauns?” he muttered.
I rolled my eyes. “Five episodes. If you hate it, we’ll switch.”
By episode five, he was googling plot. By the finale, when Katherine made her return, I caught his jaw drop.
“No. Fucking. Way.”
“Told you it was good.”
Now we’re deep into season three, and he’s is hooked—reacting to every twist like a live Twitter feed.
“HOLY SHIT,” he blurts beside me.
“What?”
“Alaric is the Mystic Falls serial killer?!”
I smack his arm. “Jax! Stop looking at spoilers!”
“I have to know! The suspense is killlllling me.”
I shake my head, laughing. “When I watched this the first time, it was still airing. I had to wait a whole week between episodes.”
He turns to me with mock horror. “Oh my God… is that your version of ‘I had to walk uphill to school both ways—in the snow—five miles’?”
We both crack up, the easy laughter a welcome relief from the claustrophobia pressing in after weeks of isolation.
Then his phone rings, slicing through the moment like a blade. He snatches it off the coffee table, answering on the second ring.
“Mercer.”
His posture shifts in an instant—one minute he’s loose and laughing, the next he’s all business. Muscles tight. Jaw locked.
“When?”
A pause.
“She’s stable?”
I sit up, stomach twisting.
“You haven’t been able to reach her?”
Another pause.
“Alright. I’m across the country, but I’ll give you her number.”
He rattles off digits, California area code catching my ear. My brows knit. Who does he know in Cali?
He hangs up, rubbing his temple. Whatever that was, it wasn’t work. I was personal.
“Everything alright?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
Liar.
“Jax?”
His jaw ticks, then finally— “It’s… my mom.”
I still. “Your mom?”
“She had a stroke.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“Oh my God. Is she okay?”
“She’s stable. Collapsed at the store. She lives with my aunt now, but they didn’t have her number—just mine. I’m listed as her emergency contact.”
“Jax… I’m so sorry.”
He stares absently at the blank screen, trying to process.
“So,” I say softly, “you’re leaving, then.”
It isn’t a question.
He turns, brow furrowed as if I’ve said something absurd. “Why would I do that?”
“Um… hello?”
“Melina. I’m on assignment. I don’t get to just leave.”
“But… you should be with her.”
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but that’s not how this works. I’ve been gone for months before—off the grid, no way to call home. She’s had hospital stays I didn’t hear about until long after.”
I frown, my stomach twisting. “That makes sense, I guess.”
He nods once. “They don’t know what caused it yet. But… she has MS. She was diagnosed when I was little.”
My chest tightens. “Multiple Sclerosis?”
“Yeah.” His voice dips, rougher. “My brother and I took care of her. Until… it was just me.”
I picture him as a little boy—blond curls, big blue eyes—carrying more weight than he should’ve. My heart aches.
“That must’ve been hard.”
“It was. She’d spend days, sometimes weeks, stuck in bed. But she was still mom. She tried. On good days, she did everything she could to make up for the rest.” A humorless chuckle slips out. “I got really good at making ramen and mac and cheese.”
I offer a soft smile. “So you had the college kid diet mastered before you ever left home.”
He smirks, but it’s different this time—tired, worn at the edges. “Pretty much. Got creative with it, too.”
Then something flickers in his expression, the sharpness softening. “Still prefer your chicken parm, though.”
***
Day 14 — Without Matt
A few days pass with no new developments. No threats. No ominous deliveries. No shadows lurking in the night. For the first time in what feels like forever, the tension starts to ease. I can breathe again. It’s not perfect—nothing ever is these days—but we’re slipping into a rhythm.
Breakfast has become my territory. It gives me something to do, something that makes life feel normal. The batter’s already half-mixed when I realize the waffle iron is on the top shelf.
I glance over my shoulder at Jax, who’s scrolling his phone at the kitchen table, a deep furrow between his brows. Probably another security report.
“Hey,” I call, setting down the whisk. “I need your big, strong man muscles.” I pause, then smirk. “And also the waffle maker from the cabinet above the fridge.”
“You been practicing that damsel-in-distress voice, sweetheart? ’Cause it needs work.”
I shoot him a look and point at the cabinet. “Less talking, more reaching.”
He pushes out his chair with exaggerated swagger. “Rough life, being fun-sized,” he teases, rolling his shoulders before stretching up.
“Bite me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, munchkin.”
I grab another egg, ready to crack it—but one glance up stops me cold.
His T-shirt rides up, exposing the lean cut of his back, the dip of his spine disappearing into the waistband of his joggers. And tucked there, casual and unapologetic, is the matte-black grip of a pistol. My throat goes dry.
He’s not bulky. No hard-cut lines or brute strength. Not dripping with sex like Matt. Jax is quietly built, all lean muscle and effortless confidence. Power you don’t notice until it’s pressing into you, and it’s all you can feel.
He’s boy-next-door handsome, with tousled dirty-blond hair and eyes like cracked ice, pale blue and startling—the kind that catch the light and won't let go. He’s dangerously easy to look at. I wasn’t expecting that.
He pulls the small appliance down and turns, catching my lingering gaze. His brow arches, amused.
I blink, tear my gaze away, and crack an egg too hard into the bowl.
“You checking me out, sweetheart?”
I roll my eyes, grabbing the whisk. “I was just wondering if you even lift.”
He snorts, setting the iron on the counter. “If you wanted a show, gorgeous, all you had to do was ask.”
I swat at him with the whisk. He laughs, dodging easily as he drops into his seat.
“You know joggers don’t count as tactical gear, right?” I tease, eyeing the loose black drawstring pants slung low on his hips.
He smirks, shifting just enough for the pistol to peek out again. “Tell that to my SIG.”
I plug in the iron, spray the plates, and wipe my hands on a towel. When I glance back, he’s still looking at me. Smug bastard.
“Relax,” I mutter. “I wasn’t checking you out. I saw your weapon.”
His smile curves, slow and wicked. “Yeah? Which one?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I chuck the towel at him. “You’re disgusting.”
He catches it, grin widening. “Says the girl staring at my junk.”
My jaw drops. “I was not.”
“Really? Because you are mixing that batter pretty aggressively over there.”
I huff, whisking harder. “You’re impossible.”
He leans back, lazy and unbothered. “Sorry, Mel. You walked right into that one.”
I narrow my gaze, searching for a comeback sharp enough to wipe that smartass look off his face. Then it hits me.
“Alexa,” I call. “Play ‘Not Like Us’ by Kendrick Lamar.”
His expression is that of disbelief. “Seriously?”
My mouth pulls. “Didn’t I tell you I was a rapper?”
He huffs a chuckle, shaking his head.
“Kendrick’s my favorite. Him and Eminem. Did you know he won a Pulitzer?”
“I know he ended Drake’s career,” he mutters, stretching his arms behind him. “Guy can write a diss track.”
“Did you see him at the Super Bowl?” I ask, eyes lighting.
He nods, and I fan myself with a dramatic sigh. “Damn, that man can wear a pair of jeans.”
He barks out a laugh, though something flickers across his expression—tight, almost possessive.
Then the beat drops. I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Just move.
The bass thumps under my skin, taking over before I can stop it. Hips roll slow, shoulders catch the pulse, head tipping to the rhythm. A little bounce, a little grind, enough to tease without trying.
My voice slips in, low and rhythmic, riding the sound like I was born for it. Words land sharp as I sway, flipping my hair off my shoulder, pivoting toward the counter. Batter pours into the iron. I’m still moving, still rapping, letting the music drag me under.
From the corner of my eye, Jax is watching.
Say Drake… I hear you like ‘em young…
I bite the line off with a smirk.
…You better not ever go to cell block one.
His arms fold, mouth twitching as though he’s losing a battle with a grin.
To any bitch that talk to him and they in love…
I roll my eyes, and twirl the whisk like a mic.
Just make sure you hide your lil’ sister from him…
I point it at him and his grin cracks wider. “Oh, we’re doing this now?”
I wink, lean into the kill shot, spitting the words I know will hit hardest—
Certified loverboy, certified pedophile… wop, wop, wop, wop, wop—dot, fuck ’em up. Wop, wop, wop, wop—I’ma do my stuff.
I drop my hips low, then rise up with just enough drama to entertain, not invite.