“Thanks,” I mutter, more out of habit than gratitude.
He doesn’t acknowledge it.
A part of me feels terrible that I get to live here while Millie and my parents are still there. Still breathing in dust and fumes and whatever else Tar City leaks into your lungs. Another part of me knows how little this polished life actually matters.
I used to dream about this. Now I know how empty material comfort can feel. I tell myself I should feel proud, that I earned this, worked for it, and still do—every blister, every rehearsal, every audition.And yet—is it pathetic that I would run back to that shithole if the guy standing in front of me asked me to?Even after everything he’s done.
One look, that’s all it took.And I ran straight back to the wolf. Stupid rabbit.
He doesn’t ask me to come back. Doesn’t even look like he expects it.
He’s wearing a black shirt, stretched tight across shoulders that are somehow broader than I remember. The sleeves are pushed up, showing forearms corded with new muscle. His jeans are frayed at the knee but still look expensive. He moves with a confidence that wasn’t there before, carries himself differently now.All grown up.
It’s infuriating.How can he do this to me just by standing there?He’s darker, sexier. A version of the boy I knew but forged in fire. My body is responding to him and I hate it. I hate that a part of me wants to know what he went through to become this man.
Jax walks straight to the small bar cart by the window and grabs the gifted scotch bottle. I think he’s pouring for himself, but then he opens the freezer, takes out ice, grabs a glass, and hands it to me. “Drink,” he tells me, his voice low.
I shrug out of my coat, tossing it onto the chair beside me. “No.”
“Drink.”
“I’m fine.” I lean my head back against the couch, trying to look casual, like my pulse isn’t going completely feral.
“You’re not,” he says calmly, handing me the glass anyway. “Your legs are shaking.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.”
I glare at him. “What are you now? Decided to take your dad’s path after all?”
He ignores that, completely unfazed. He kneels in front of me and without asking he lifts my ankle gently. My dress rides higher but I pretend I don’t notice.
His hand wraps around my calf to steady me. I hate the way my breath catches, the way my skin instantly heats under his touch.
“Glass is out,” I tell him, but I don’t pull my foot back.
His thumb moves along my arch, slow and careful. I take a sip of the drink, determined not to let out a moan and embarrass myself. He’s not being sexual, just helpful. “You don’t have to do this,” I try to protest, my voice a little too breathy.
His fingers work into the tight muscles of my ankle, digging into the knots and tension from months of training, hours on pointe. Everything I’ve been carrying sits there, and I think he somehow knows it.
He looks up at me, and for a split second, something moves behind his eyes—a flicker of red gone so fast I shake my head, sure I imagined it.
How does he still do this?Almost a year apart. An entire city between us. A new life I built piece by piece just to survive without him, and one look still rearranges something fundamental inside me.
His hands close around my ankle again, firmer this time. He turns my foot slightly, inspecting the swelling, thumb pressing along the tendon like he already knows exactly where it hurts.
I hate that I let him.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He hums dismissively and without warning, he lifts my foot. My stomach caves and before I can protest he brings it to his mouth.
“Jax—”
His lips press just below my heel and my pulse spikes.
“What are—” I start, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
