31. I Remember Everything
Chapter thirty-one
I Remember Everything
Melina
I wake to sunlight. Not the pale kind that sneaks past the curtains at dawn, but real sunlight—mid-morning, bold and unashamed, warming the sheets until I have to blink against it.
I sit up fast, heart kicking. Where are the kids? Why is it quiet?
A slow exhale steadies me as I swing my legs over the bed. I don’t sleep in. Can’t.
Then I hear it—faint laughter, the scrape of a chair, something sizzling in a pan.
Half-asleep, braced for chaos, I follow the noise down the hall. But when I step into the archway, I stop cold.
Jax is at the stove, barefoot in gray joggers and a worn black t-shirt. One hand works a spatula, the other cradles a mug. His hair is damp, sticking up in unruly spikes, and there’s a smear of batter streaked across his wrist.
Spencer stands on a stepstool beside him, deadly serious in his role as chocolate chip distributor. Harper leans against the island—phone in one hand, juice in the other—like this is the most normal Saturday morning in the world.
None of them notice me.
And for a moment, I watch.
No one’s fighting. Nothing’s burning. The dog isn’t barking. And I slept in—for the first time in years.
Jax doesn’t look like a guest—like security. He looks like he belongs here.
When he finally turns, he gives me that low, easy smile—the one that always seems to land right where I need it most.
“Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning.” My voice is scratchy. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He flips a pancake with a flick of his wrist. “You looked like you needed the rest.”
I move toward the coffee pot, already reaching, when he lifts a mug and crosses the room to meet me.
“Hazelnut,” he says. “Cream and sugar.”
I blink down at it, then up at him. “You remembered that?”
He shrugs, turning back to the stove. “I remember everything.”
Harper eyes us over the rim of her glass. “He also makes bomb pancakes.”
“They’re his mom’s recipe,” Spencer adds proudly. “But I helped.”
“You sure did, kiddo.” Jax gives him a high-five.
I sink into a chair, cradling my mug, the aroma wrapping around me like comfort.
This is usually my job—wrangling kids, cooking breakfast, downing caffeine just to function. I’ve never really let anyone in.
But Jax is here. And the world hasn’t fallen apart.
It feels good. Too good.
“Anything else I missed?” I ask, sipping my brew.
Harper answers. “Arrow’s been out. Dishwasher’s running. Brooks left when Jackson got here. He said to tell you bye.”
I nod, scanning the kitchen. All appears calm. Handled.
“You planning on doing any homework today?” I arch a brow.
“Ugh, fine.” Harper drags herself to the table like she’s being sentenced, flopping into the chair with a dramatic sigh. “But I swear, this thing is not lefty-friendly.”
“What does that even mean?” Spencer squints at her from across the table.
Harper holds up the page as evidence. “Everything’s printed on the left margin. My hand smears everything when I write. Total sabotage.”
I shake my head. “Blame the world, not me. I made you beautiful, not ambidextrous.”
From the stove, Jax glances over. “Lefties rule, by the way.”
Harper perks up. “Wait—you’re a lefty too?”
“Damn right. We’re the elite ten percent.”
“Finally.” She grins. “Someone who gets it.”
“Statistically,” he adds, tossing her a wink, “we’re also more creative, more athletic, and slightly more likely to start a rebellion.”
Jax slides a plate in front of me—pancakes still steaming, a handful of blueberries on the side like he actually thought about balance.
“No protein, but I’m working on it,” he says, settling across from me with his own plate.
Spencer wedges onto the bench beside me, syrup already on his fingers. “Can Jax make breakfast every day?”
The question punches the air from my lungs. No agenda, no hidden meaning. Just eleven-year-old honesty.
I glance at Jax. He doesn’t react—no smug grin, no awkward deflection—he just keeps eating, like it’s nothing at all.
I manage a smile. “He’s got other things to do, baby.”
Spencer shrugs. “Yeah. But he’s really good at pancakes.”
We eat in rare silence, the kind of peace that feels borrowed, fleeting, and sweeter for it
At one point, Jax reaches across the table and wipes a smear of syrup off Spencer’s chin with a napkin, like second nature.
I realize I’m staring. I lift my mug for another sip, using the coffee as cover. I didn’t mean for this happen—the comfort, the ease, the way he folds so seamlessly into our chaos.
But somehow, without asking, he’s here. Not just in my house, but in the rhythm of our mornings. In the quiet. In the calm.
I never planned to let him this far in. But maybe… I left the door open without meaning to.
***
Day 24 — Without Matt
“Pow Ponder says this one’s gonna be a doozy,” Jax states, holding out his phone so I can see the radar image.
I lean in, squinting at the swirl of red and pink barreling toward us. “You follow him, too?” I grin. “He’s my favorite weatherman.”
Jax chuckles. “Guy’s dramatic as hell, but he’s always right.”
“Indeed.” I peer out the window. The wind’s already picking up. “Can you bring in the patio chairs and maybe the kids’ scooters? I asked Harper and Spencer to close all the windows.”
“On it.” He heads to the back door.
“I’ll come with. Arrow needs to go out, anyway.”
Outside, the air smells electric. Charged. The dog bolts down the steps and circles the yard, nose to the ground. He finds a spot near the edge of the fence and lifts his leg.
Jax stands beside me, arms crossed, scanning the darkening sky. “He usually this fast?”
“Only when it’s urgent,” I say, smirking.
Arrow finishes, then raises his head just as the first raindrop falls.
“Arrow, come!” I call.
He turns immediately and trots toward me without hesitation.
“Damn,” Jax mutters as Arrow settles at my feet. “That’s some Navy-SEAL-level recall.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. “I have Matt to thank for that. He did most of the training.”
Jax nods, silent.
I glance over at him. “You a dog person?”
“Obviously.” His mouth quirks. “But living alone, gone all the time? Never made sense to have one. Had a lab growing up, though. His name was Ranger.”
I smile. “We had a lab too. Sandy. She used to sleep under my bed during thunderstorms.”
We’re quiet for a moment, listening to the low roll of thunder as it crawls across the sky.
Then Harper’s voice cuts through the air, loud from the doorway. “Okay, we’re clearly watching Twister. OG or remake? It’s giving Sophie’s Choice.” She holds up both DVDs like proof.
Spencer appears behind her, clutching a pillow. “The OG, obviously.”
Jax grins. “Superior in every way.”
Harper glances at me, raising an eyebrow. “Mom?”
I pretend to hesitate, biting my lip. “Glen Powell is hot, but the original is still my favorite.”
“Justice for Bill Paxton,” Jax says under his breath.
“Exactly,” I reply, grinning as Harper groans like we’ve just aged ourselves out of relevance.
The storm rolls in fast. One minute, the kids are curled up on the couch watching the movie, the next, thunder cracks so loud the floor vibrates. Spencer jolts into my lap, curls damp with nervous sweat.
“Okay,” I say, smoothing his hair. “Looks like movie night just got an upgrade.”
Lightning flashes, painting the walls a quick, eerie white. Harper props her chin on her hand, unimpressed. She’s always been weirdly calm during storms.
Somewhere down the hall, I hear the faint creak of my office door and remember that Brooks arrived earlier for shift change. He’s been holed up in there ever since, catching up on reports while the rest of us took over the living room.
“Should I shut the blinds?” Harper asks, more out of habit than concern.
Before I can answer, Jax is already moving. “How about we build a pillow fort instead?” His eyes sweep the space as if he’s assessing a mission.
Spencer gasps. “No fair!”
He dives in, hauling couch cushions and rearranging furniture with military precision. The kids giggle as they drag out every blanket we own, tossing throw pillows like ammo, the chaos somehow organized under his command.
I can’t help but watch him—this big, serious man on his knees in my living room, looping string lights through blankets like it’s second nature. The storm rattles outside, but here, the glow is soft and warm.
Within minutes, the fort is a masterpiece—blankets draped across the coffee table, pillows stacked into barricades, twinkle lights giving everything a golden haze.
“Alright,” Jax says, crouching inside and patting the floor beside him. “Fort rules: snacks, drinks, and a flashlight for spooky stories.”
Harper tosses a bag of pretzels into the pile. Spencer scampers off and returns with his flashlight, clicking it under his chin with a maniacal grin. For a moment, it feels as though we’ve built a whole other world—one where the storm can’t touch us.
The movie hums in the background, forgotten. Spencer’s out before the halfway mark, mouth slack in sleep. Harper lasts longer, but eventually her breathing evens, her head tucked against my shoulder.
Jax notices too. He moves carefully, reaching behind him for a throw, draping it over them both.
Silence settles in, broken only by the steady drum of raindrops on the roof.
“They feel safe with you,” I whisper.
His eyes find mine in the dim glow. “I’m glad.”
I study him—the cut of his jaw, the way his entire face softens when he looks at them. At me. “You didn’t have to stay this long.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to leave.”
Minutes pass. I shift cautiously so I don’t wake the kids. “Storm’s letting up,” I murmur. “Want to see the sky?”
Jax nods once, almost reverent. “Yeah.”
We crawl out of the fort like a couple of teenagers sneaking past curfew. I snag Jax’s hoodie from the hook by the door and tug it on—it’s damp at the edges, but it shields me from the lingering drizzle as we step outside.