33. Can I Touch You?
Chapter thirty-three
Can I Touch You?
Melina
Anniversaries don’t feel like milestones. They feel like ghosts.
I’ve spent all morning trying not to think about what today is. The day I married Darren. The day that, years later, he nearly killed me. A date circled on the calendar in invisible ink, branded on my skin whether I want it or not.
The house is still, but I can’t settle. I keep drifting—folding laundry, answering emails, refilling my coffee—like movement might keep the memories from catching up. But even in the stillness, I feel them pressing in.
Jax notices. Of course he does. His gaze lingers longer than usual, brow furrowed as if he’s cataloging every shift in my expression.
“You’re quiet,” he says finally.
I force a shrug. “Just tired.”
His eyes stay on me, skeptical but merciful. He doesn’t press.
I retreat down the hall, needing a minute to myself. In the bathroom, I turn the tap and let the water run hot, steam fogging the mirror as I splash my face. I scrub hard, like I can rinse away the heaviness weighing on my chest.
That’s when I hear it—the chime of the doorbell, quick footsteps across the floor. Jax’s voice, faint but clear. “I’ve got it.”
By the time I step back into the kitchen, the question is already leaving my lips. “Who was at the door?”
Then I see them.
A glass vase, heavy and gleaming. Two dozen long-stemmed roses, blood-red and wet with condensation.
All the air leaves my lungs.
My arms go slack at my sides. My feet carry me forward on instinct, gaze locked on the flowers as dread coils low in my gut. I plunge into the petals, yanking out the small white envelope hidden there.
Happy Anniversary.
That’s all it says. Black ink. No name.
The card shakes in my hand before I slap it down on the counter. “Get them out of my sight.”
Jax blinks, his expression hard but confused. He picks up the card, scanning the words. “What is this, Melina?”
“I said get rid of them.” My tone is sharper now, cracking. “I can’t look at them.”
The sweet, cloying smell burns my nose. God, I detest roses. Darren used to bring them home after every fight, every bruise, every broken promise. He brought them that night, too. Our anniversary—the night he chained me up, took everything he wanted, then left me to die.
The vase gleams under the kitchen light, innocent and cruel.
“Please,” I whisper, tears threatening. “Take them away.”
Without a word, he gathers the vase and walks out the back door. I hear the screen creak, slam, then the faint echo of glass thudding into the dumpster.
When he returns, his shirt clings to his shoulders, damp from the drizzle outside. I’m curled on the couch, arms wrapped around myself.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push. Just sinks beside me, close enough I feel his warmth, not so close I have to move. The stillness stretches, disrupted only by the sound of our breathing.
Finally, his voice breaks the silence. Soft. Careful. “That’s why you’ve been off today.”
I nod before speaking my truth. “It’s not just the anniversary of our wedding.”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
I lift my eyes to his. I don’t say the words. Don’t have to.
Realization slams into him. His jaw locks, his throat working. “On your anniversary?” he whispers, horrified.
“Yup.” I say, heavy enough to fill the room.
For a moment, we sit in it—what it means, what it took. His hands flex once on his knees, as if he needs something to hit.
“FYI,” I say, brittle but steady. “I hate roses.”
He nods once. “Noted.”
His tone is even, but his eyes burn—fury, grief, and something that looks dangerously close to breaking. Still, he doesn’t let it spill. He stays present. Solid.
“What do you need?” He asks quiet, almost hesitant.
A small smile tugs at my lips. I’m not used to someone making it this simple. No demands, no expectations. “Just you,” I murmur. “Here with me.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You have me. Always.”
***
Later that night, the house is quiet again. Jax is still here, steady as ever, and though the worst of the ache has eased, the past hasn’t fully let go. It never does.
I need something to take the edge off, something familiar. Safe. My emotional support show.
I glance at him, reaching for the remote. “You up for Vampire Diaries ?”
He doesn’t hesitate, just shifts slightly on the couch as I queue it up. By the time the first episode rolls, he’s watching like it’s a tactical briefing—focused, engaged, not even a sarcastic comment. I’m almost impressed.
“Okay, hold on.” Jax narrows his eyes at the screen. “You seriously think he’s hot?”
“You mean Klaus? Obviously.”
“Melina.” He says my name like a warning. “He’s literally a mass murderer. You know that, right?”
I shrug, unfazed. “Yeah, but the way he looks at Caroline? Swoon.”
He scoffs. “So, you’re into emotionally unavailable war criminals with good cheekbones. Noted.”
I nudge his leg with my foot. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”
He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “You wound me. I thought I was your favorite emotionally unavailable killer.”
“You’re not a killer, Jax,” I say softly. “And you’re definitely not emotionally unavailable.”
Something shifts. His smile falters—not defensive, not ashamed. Just… quiet.
He exhales. “Technically, I’m a trained killer. Comes with the job description—take out the bad guys, try not to lose your soul.”
My gaze flicks to his. “You haven’t lost it, Jax.”
His jaw flexes. “Some days it feels like it.”
I reach out, letting my fingers brush his forearm. Warmth. Steadiness. Me. “Who you are and what you do? Not the same thing. Don’t forget that.”
He studies me for a beat longer, then says softer, “You like that she makes him better.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah.”
“So that’s the draw?” His voice drops, more intent. “A guy who’s a mess, dangerous in all the wrong ways, but steadier when you’re near?”
My breath catches, but I find the words. “It’s not about saving him. She sees him—his darkness, his damage—and she’s not afraid.
Jax goes still beside me.
“That’s why he loves her,” I add quietly. “She doesn’t run.”
His expression changes—small, but unmistakable. A spark behind his eyes.
“No,” he says, quiet. “She doesn’t.”
The silence stretches, thick with everything unspoken. The show keeps playing, but neither of us is watching.
I don’t remember closing my eyes. One blink turns into two, and then everything blurs at the edges. My head tips sideways, lulled by the low hum of the TV and the steady rhythm of Jax’s breathing.
The last thing I register is the couch dipping as he adjusts. Warmth brushes my shoulder, the soft weight of a blanket covering me.
But I’m already slipping. Already gone.
And then—
I wake with a sharp gasp. Heart racing. Air caught in my lungs.
Even with the flicker of the TV casting light across the room, it’s pitch black in my mind.. I’m not here—I’m back there, and I can’t get out.
I bolt upright, trembling, lungs burning.
“Melina—” Jax’s voice cuts through the fog like a tether.
He’s in front of me, crouched low, gaze locked on mine. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re safe.” His tone is firm, grounding.
I shake my head. “I can’t—” My chest heaves. “I can’t breathe—”
“Yes, you can. You’ve done it before, you’re doing it now. Stay with me. Let’s ground, okay?”
I nod, but hands still shake.
“Five things you can see,” he says gently.
I blink fast and list them. “You. The blanket. The coffee table. The remote. The lamp.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
I press my palms to my thighs. “My leggings. The blanket. The couch. Your hand.”
I realize he’s already holding it — he’s laced our fingers together without me noticing..
“Three things you can hear.”
“The TV. My breathing. Your voice.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“Coffee. And… you.”
He exhales, a small almost-smile. “Last one. One thing you can taste.”
I pause, then whisper, “Regret.”
His face shifts, but he nods once. “You’re here. You made it through.”
I close my eyes. The shaking eases. My lungs expand easier, even if my chest still aches.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” His voice is low and solid. “You don’t ever have to apologize for surviving.”
***
The porch is quiet, wrapped in shadows. I curl into a blanket, knees to my chest, the swing creaking softly beneath me. The air is cool, still. Faint laughter drifts from inside—Brooks, probably giving Harper shit. It fades as the door opens.
I don’t have to look to know it’s Jax. He’s been staying late more and more—tonight, two hours past his shift. It’s a habit now. Most nights he ends up on the couch. No excuses, no fanfare. Just here, like it’s normal.
He steps out with two mugs, footsteps slow, giving me the chance to send him back inside.
“Just a few more minutes?” I murmur.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t remind me that I’m not supposed to be out here alone after dark. He just hands me a mug and sits beside me.
“Thanks,” I whisper, the warmth seeping into my palms. But it’s more than that, and we both know it.
He nods, settling in. Silence stretches—easy, unforced. Safe.
I glance at him, hesitating before I ask. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.” His eyes don’t waver.
I swallow. “Have you… seen the photos? Of what Darren did to me?”
Jax exhales, a long, heavy sound. Then he gives a short, pained nod. “I have.”
“I haven’t talked about that night. Not since it happened,” I admit.
His head snaps toward me, stunned. “What?”
I pick at the rim of my mug, forcing air into my lungs. “I tried to tell Matt… when everyone found out,” I say quietly. “But he… he didn’t want to hear it. Too fresh.”
Jax stares at me, disbelief sharpening into something darker. His jaw flexes, like he’s biting back words.
“You mean to say,” he says slow, voice rough with barely controlled anger, “you were finally ready to open up, and he shut you down?”
I nod, the truth sharp in my chest. “Yeah.”
He exhales low, then reaches for my hands. His grip is steady. Grounding. “Do you want to talk about it now?”