35. Jonas
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jonas
Iwake up slowly. Not because I want to. But because my body won't let me do anything else.
The pain isn't gone. It never is. But it's...manageable.
Dulled. Distant.
Like it's sitting behind a wall instead of burrowing into my skull.
I blink a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the low light. The room is still dim. Still quiet. Still safe. This is the first thing I notice. Not the headache. Not the exhaustion. Not even the lingering nausea.
Safe.
My hand shifts slightly against the bed, and I feel it. Warmth. Soft. Kaia.
My chest does something weird. It doesn’t feel sharp. Or overwhelming. Just...full. I turn my head slightly, slow enough not to trigger any pain.
She's here. Curled just close enough to be touching, but not crowding, like she didn't want to overstep.
My throat tightens. She stayed. Not because someone told her to. Not because she felt obligated.
Because she wanted to.
My fingers shift under hers again, this time intentionally. Testing.
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't freeze. Doesn't hesitate. Her thumb brushes lightly over my hand. Careful, like she's asking for permission without using words.
"You're awake," she whispers. Her voice is soft and steady, like she's been holding it together just for this.
"Yeah," I murmur. My voice comes out rough. Dry.
She pushes herself up just enough to see me better. Her brows pull together. "You still don't look great."
I huff out a weak breath. "Wow. Brutal."
She smiles. Small. Relieved. "You scared me."
That lands harder than anything else has. I blink at her for a second. Another second. "You don't have to…"
"I know." She cuts me off, but it's not sharp. Not defensive. Just...certain. "I wanted to."
There it is again. That choice. My chest tightens in a completely different way than before.
"Okay," I say quietly. Because I don't know what else to say to that.
There's a beat of comfortable silence.
"How are you feeling?" she asks.
The lie comes out naturally. It's instinct. Automatic. "I'm fine." The look she gives me? Yeah. She’s not buying it. I sigh, shifting my head back into the pillow. "Better," I amend. "Not great. But better."
She nods like this matters, like it’s enough. "Good," she says softly. Her hand moves again, this time more deliberate. Tracing slow, absent patterns along my stomach through the shirt. Stars. Circles. Random shapes.
I exhale without meaning to. "That helps," I murmur.
"I’m glad," she says quietly.
We stay like this for a minute. Maybe longer. Time feels weird when your brain is finally able to slow down.
Then reality creeps back in.
"The guys?" I ask.
"Downstairs," she says before studying me for another second. "You don't have to go down yet."
I look at her—really look this time. She means it. No pressure. No expectations. Just an option.
I shake my head slightly. "I want to." Because I do. Because if I stay up here too long, I’ll start feeling like the weak link. The thing that slows everything down. And that’s worse than anything else.
She must see it on my face. Because her expression shifts. Softens. "You're not ruining anything," she says quietly.
I blink. "Did I say that?"
"No," she says. "But you thought it."
Yeah...okay. That's mildly terrifying. I let out a slow breath. "Working on it," I mutter.
She nods like this is acceptable, like I don't have to be perfect. "Okay," she says simply. Then she stands. Moves slowly. Gives me space to follow instead of pulling me up.
Fuck, she's good at that.
I sit up carefully. Wait for the world to tilt. It doesn't. Good sign.
"Here, drink," she says, grabbing the Gatorade from the nightstand.
"Yes, ma'am," I mutter.
She smirks.
I take another drink, even though I don't really want to, but she's watching. And I want her to keep looking at me like that, like I'm worth taking care of.
We move slowly down the hallway. Step by step. By the time we hit the stairs, I can already feel them. The pack. Not in some mystical way. Just...presence. Energy. Home. We step into the living room and everything shifts.
Finn moves first. Of course he does. He's on his feet before I even fully process it. Crossing the room.
"Hey," I say, because if I don't, I'm scared he's going to bolt.
He stops a few feet away, his eyes scanning me, checking. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I nod. "Yeah. Just a migraine."
His face breaks a little. "Don't do that," he says quietly. "Don't minimize."
I exhale. "Better now."
This he accepts. He steps in and hugs me. Careful, but it's progress.
Lachlan's right behind him. Hand landing on my shoulder. Steady. Grounding.
Adrian doesn't move right away. He watches. Always assessing. Always calculating. Then his gaze shifts to Kaia. And something in his expression changes. Approval. Respect. Not subtle. Not hidden. Earned.
I glance between them. Then back at her.
Yeah. We're done for.
"Sit," Adrian says, nodding toward the couch. I do. No argument. Finn drops down next to me, closer than he usually gets when I'm like this. Another shift.
Kaia hovers for half a second, then settles on my other side. Not tentative. Not nervous. Just there.
Lachlan takes the chair and Adrian stays standing for a second longer. Looking at all of us. Then he exhales quietly, and sits. It's small—barely noticeable, but I feel it. We all do. Something just clicked. No one says it, no one needs to—but it's there. Solid. Certain. Complete.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I'm not the only one holding the weight.
I've been tracking Lachlan's careful steadiness, making sure it doesn't crack under pressure.
Monitoring Adrian's control, watching for the moments when it threatens to fracture.
Managing Finn's chaos, ensuring it doesn't tip into something darker.
Holding space for Kaia's fragility, her fear, her need to be seen.
It's been constant. Necessary. But exhausting in ways I never let myself acknowledge.
Now, though—the weight distributes itself across all of us.
I can feel it settling, spreading, becoming bearable.
Because I'm not holding it alone anymore. We all are.