Chapter 4 Jax
Chapter four
Jax
The snow has settled deeper, soft around the trees.
It quiets the world in a way nothing else can.
I watch it from the window while the kettle hisses behind me, trying to lose myself in the quiet.
I can still feel her in the room. When she’s not moving, even when she’s reading in the armchair with her legs curled up and her chin tucked into the collar of my shirt, she fills the space with a steady heat I can’t seem to step back from.
It’s like she belongs here in my life, even though I didn’t ask for it.
I pour water from the kettle over dried mint and other herbs, watching the steam rise, and set the mug by her hand.
I don’t speak. I just want her to feel looked after.
She looks up and smiles, her fingers brushing mine when she reaches for the mug’s handle.
It’s a small touch, the kind of thing people probably don’t notice.
I notice everything about her. The brush of her fingers sends a jolt straight to my chest. I pull back a second too late, the sudden touch making my cock stir.
My skin’s already humming where she touched me, and my mind’s already gone somewhere I shouldn’t let it.
I tell myself it’s just tea. Just a morning routine, but nothing feels simple with her in the room.
I study the way she wraps her fingers around the mug before taking a sip, the way her lashes drop as she inhales the steam, the way her lips part just enough to cool it before she drinks.
I should look away before my cock wakes up fully.
Instead, I memorize the sound she makes when the warmth hits her throat.
She glances at me from beneath the fall of her hair with soft, questioning eyes. “You always take care of people like this?”
The answer sits heavy in my chest, thick with the weight of memory. I shake my head once. “No.”
That’s all I give her. I see her register it, but she doesn’t push. That’s what undoes me. She lets the silence breathe and doesn’t try to drag things out of me or poke at the places I’ve sealed off. She just sees them and stays.
She shifts the blanket off her lap and rises, her feet in a pair of my thick winter socks on the warm floor, her movement unhurried but full of purpose.
I track her instinctively. I can’t help but stare at the way her body curves as she stretches, the way she moves like she belongs in this room, like she’s already learned the way the floorboards creak.
She moves toward the bookshelf I built against the far wall and runs her fingers along the edges of the spines until her fingers rest on an old sketchpad I haven’t opened in years. “Do you mind?” she asks, and I shake my head. She slides it from the shelf and cradles it in the crook of her arm.
Her touch is reverent, as if the quiet itself means something to her.
I feel an ache deep in my chest, wanting to give her more of it.
She turns her gaze toward the snow-covered trees beyond the window.
The light catches in her hair, turning it gold at the edges.
I want to touch it, fist it in my hand, pull her closer. I don’t.
She crosses back to the fire and lowers herself to the floor beside it, stretching her legs out in front of her and resting the sketchpad on her thighs below her bent knees.
I stay where I am. It isn’t that I don’t want to join her, but the distance is the only thing keeping me steady.
The way she looks in the glow of the flames, skin lit soft and warm, does something to me I’m not sure I know how to handle.
She opens the pad, flipping past pages until she finds a blank one.
There’s a pencil closed in the middle. I watch the way her fingers curl around it, her brows knitting in thought.
She’s drawing someone in a Santa hat, the very thing she came to Granitehart Ridge for.
I tell myself not to look at her hands, but I do.
I don’t want to notice how she fits in this space like it was made for her, but I can’t stop seeing it.
My body stays. Everything in me wants to move toward her and ask what it means that I already know she’s drawing me, and that I want her to.
“Did you always live like this?” she asks without looking up. Her voice is gentle, not probing. “Out here. Off the grid.”
“Not always.”
She waits, giving me space to continue, but I don’t. Not yet. I don’t talk about the before. Not because I don’t trust her, but because I don’t trust myself once I start.
“I think I envy it,” she says after a while. “The way you made space for peace. I don’t think I’ve ever done that. Everything I do is about making noise. Getting seen.”
I let the silence hold her words. She fills it in her own time.
“I used to think that’s what I wanted. Lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe I just didn’t know what quiet felt like.”
The fire snaps softly, the only sound for several long seconds.
“My parents divorced when I was ten. They both remarried quickly and started new families. Pretty soon, I was just a spare kid getting shuffled around in a joint custody agreement. I learned not to take up space, but when I started my blog and started making noise again, it got me the attention I thought I’d always wanted.
Now, here I am in your cabin, not shooting the Christmas market, because I realized I was looking for a different kind of quiet the whole time. ”
I lower myself to the floor beside her, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the pull.
The heat from the stove warms my side, but it’s her presence that burns deeper.
I glance at her face and the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and wonder if she knows how deeply I’m already coming undone.
She turns to look at me, eyes shining in the firelight. Something shifts in her posture. Her knee brushes mine. The contact is casual, accidental, but it knocks something loose inside me. My breath leaves slower, heavier.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“You won’t,” I answer before I think. Then softer, “unless you walk away.”
She doesn't. She stays with her knee resting against mine and her shoulders relaxed in a way that tells me she feels safe, even if she shouldn't. I built this cabin to keep the world out, to keep myself out of the world. She’s here now, already inside without trying. Maybe she was meant to be. It isn’t what she says, but how she’s quiet with me.
She doesn’t ask me to perform or explain.
She sees the silence and doesn’t treat it like something that needs fixing.
I used to like the stillness in this room.
Now it feels hollow the second she leaves it.
The air settles differently when she’s not here. Quieter, but not better.
The pencil falls from her fingers and rolls across the floor until it rests near my knee.
She leans forward to reach it, and the edge of her shirt lifts just enough for the curve of her thigh to brush against my hand.
It’s accidental, but it lands like a claim I can’t stop feeling.
I go still, afraid that if I move, I’ll give something away.
Her breath catches, almost imperceptibly.
I wonder if it’s from the contact or from the way I’m looking at her now.
She straightens slowly, drawing her legs back in, but she doesn’t move away.
I turn my head toward her and find her already watching me.
The firelight dances in her eyes. Something quiet and certain passes between us.
She licks her lips, like she’s thinking about saying something and deciding not to.
My gaze falls to her mouth and stays there too long. She notices. I know she does.
Her hand trembles slightly when she reaches for her mug.
It’s not fear. It’s want, maybe? I feel it mirrored in every inch of my skin.
I should get up. I should find something else to do.
Instead, I watch her sip, watch the steam rise, watch her swallow.
I’ve kissed her once, but that doesn’t change how much I still want to.
It doesn’t change how wrecked I feel just being near her.
She sets the mug down carefully and turns her body toward mine, one knee bent, one leg stretched out beside mine. Her fingers trace the seam of her shirt where the buttons meet. Her voice is soft when she speaks. “You said I wouldn’t ruin it unless I left.”
I nod once, not trusting my voice.
Her eyes hold mine. “I could maybe… not leave.”
There’s a heartbeat of stillness between us.
A suspended breath. I look at her mouth again.
She leans forward slightly, just enough to blur the line of what’s happening.
My chest tightens. Her hand rises slowly and settles on my thigh, just above my knee.
The heat of it spreads like flame through denim and skin.
My breath pulls shallow. I don’t move. I wait to see if she will.
She doesn't. She shifts closer until the length of her thigh presses against mine. I can feel the shape of her even through layers. Her hand slides upward an inch. Not demanding, just there. Her gaze stays locked on mine. She doesn’t look away.
I should move. I should say something to cool it down. But all I can think about is how good she feels against me and how much I want more than I’ve earned. My mind goes straight to her thigh. It’s all I can do not to knead my fingers into her soft curves.
I reach up and brush her hair behind her ear, my fingers grazing her cheek.
She leans into the touch, just slightly, but enough to tell me she wants more.
My hand cups her jaw, my thumb resting against the hinge where tension lives beneath her softness.
She turns her face into it. She’s not shy. She’s open. Waiting.