Her fingers press into the blankets beneath her, grounding herself against the urge to twist out of his hold and reclaim something she cannot name.
Ronyn does not tighten his grip. He does not adjust. He simply remains steady behind her, his presence constant and unshaken, like he has no intention of taking anything she does not give.
After a moment, his hand lifts.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His fingers slide into her hair, careful as they move through the strands. Just touching.
The gesture is unhurried. Absent of intent beyond the contact itself. His hand moves again, smoothing through her hair from crown to ends, the repetition gentle, grounding.
Jax’s breath falters.
That is new.
It is real.
And it is godsdamned terrifying.
So for the first time in years, she stops fighting it. Because she knows what she has been doing. She knows what it costs. She knows who it hurts. And now, the cost feels heavier than the risk.
Her breath leaves her slowly. And instead of pulling away…she stays.
Ronyn continues, his fingers threading through her hair again, slower this time, his touch steady, patient, like he understands that this is not something to rush.
There is no joke half-formed on his tongue. No smirk lifting his lips. No theatrical performance.
Just Ronyn.
Like they’ve both decided to place their armor to the side, and reveal themselves.
Gods, she feels naked.
But the tension in her shoulders begins to shift, loosening and melting in a way she has not felt before.
Her body leans back before she fully registers the movement, her weight settling against him as though her instincts have decided before the rest of her can catch up.
He adjusts slightly to support it, his arm firm at her waist, his other hand still moving through her hair, smoothing, steadying, repeating the same quiet rhythm.
Just presence.
Jax exhales, long and uneven, her eyes falling closed as the sensation settles under her skin in a way that feels dangerously close to safety.
Her throat tightens. She swallows against it. It doesn’t hold.
No. Not here. Not now.
But the first tear slips free without warning, tracing hot along her temple before disappearing into her hair.
She stills.
Embarrassment flares sharp and immediate.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice rough.
Ronyn’s hand doesn’t stop.
