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He starts to sob, and it’s quiet in the beginning, almost like he’s still trying to hold it back, but it builds, each breath catching harder than the last until it turns into something that sounds like it hurts just to hear. It does. It cuts straight through me in a way I’m not used to, in a way I don’t know how to deal with except to tighten my hold on him just a little, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, keeping him close without forcing anything.

I don’t speak. There’s nothing I can say that would fix this. I just hold him. Let him break. Let him get it out without interruption, without expectation, without anything attached to it. Because he needs it. God, he needs this. And fuck, I want to take it all away. Every ounce of pain. Every fear. Everything that put him here in the first place. I want to pull him out of it. Out of that life. From the people who think they can use him, break him, throw him back together just enough to keep going.

Because I see him. Not just what he shows the world. Not just the size, the strength, the way he carries himself, like he can handle anything thrown at him. I’ve seen past that for months. Watched the way he moves when he thinks no one’s paying attention. The way he checks on the fighters he beats. The way he doesn’t chase the win, doesn’t enjoy the violence the way the others do. There’s something in him that doesn’t belong in that world.

Something softer and gentler. And it’s not a weakness. Not even close. It’s the kind of strength most people don’t understand. The kind that survives instead of destroying. The kind that shouldn’t have had to learn how to fight like this just to exist.

He’s too good for what’s been done to him. Too good for the life he’s been forced into. And I feel it settle in my chest, heavy and unshakable. I’m not letting that world take anything else from him. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Chapter 20

Jaxon

I break. It’s not in controlled cracks that I can hide or push down later. I break all at once.

Every fracture that’s been buried deep inside me, every fault line I’ve ignored, every splinter I’ve learned to live around instead of pulling out. They all split wide open at the same time, and there’s no stopping it, no holding it back, no pretending I’m still in control.

It spills out of me. Everything I have been holding onto, the grief, the anger, and the exhaustion. I can’t even catch my breath between it, my chest heaving, ribs screaming in protest, but I don’t care, because it’s finally out, finally tearing free in a way I haven’t let it in so long I almost forgot what it felt like. I haven’t cried like this in years.

Not since Trent. Not since everything he did, everything he said, everything he carved into me and then walked away from like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t matter. All of that comes rushing back. His cruelty and rejection, and the way he made me feel like I was too much and not enough all at the same time. Like I was something to be used and then discarded. It burns through me all over again, fresh and raw, as if no time has passed at all. And I can’t stop it. I don’t even try.

Conor’s hold tightens around me, and for the first time in longer than I can track, something in me settles into it, into the solid certainty of his arms and the unfamiliar, almost disorienting sense of safety that comes with it.

I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know what this looks like from his side, but I don’t have it in me to pull away. Not when I’m already turning into him, pressing my face into his chest like it’s the only place I can breathe.

My fingers curl into his shirt, holding on without thinking, and the tears come harder for it, breaking past whatever control I thought I still had. I should be ashamed of this, of how easily it happens, of how quickly I fold into something softer than I’ve ever allowed myself to be, but fuck, it feels too good to be held again.

As the sobs ease, I let my battered body sink against Conor’s firm chest, exhaustion pulling at me almost as heavily as the steady weight of his arms wrapped around me. The last thing I remember is the feel of his fingers moving through my hair, his blunt nails dragging lightly against my scalp in a slow, absent rhythm that loosens something deep inside me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I finally wake, but I’m still curled against him, still held securely in Conor’s strong arms. His warmth soaks so deeply into me that for a few disoriented seconds, I forget what it feels like to be cold. I try to push myself upright. But Conor holds tight.

“Sorry about crying and falling asleep on you.”

I try to sit up again. This time, Conor lets me move, but his arms don’t fall away. They stay loosely wrapped around me, like he hasn’t quite decided to let go.

“Don’t apologize,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mind. But you need more rest.”

He leans in as he speaks, close enough that I feel it before I fully register it. His thumb brushes beneath my eye, catching the dampness there in a slow, careful stroke that has my eyes slipping closed before I can stop them. It would be so easy to slip into his touch. So easy to let myself just be for a minute.

“Let me get you something to eat so you can take your pain meds. Then you can get some real sleep.” Conor shifts, easing himself away from me as he starts to stand.

The loss of his warmth hits immediately. I almost call him back, almost tell him to come sit down and hold me again, but the words never make it past my throat. I can’t let myself lean into it. Can’t let myself want it this much, no matter how starved I am for something as simple as being touched.

My hands tighten together in my lap, fingers curling into each other instead of reaching for him, even as the urge lingers to grab hold of his shirt and not let go. To just lose myself in him for a little while, without having to think, without having to worry about how completely fucked my life is. Instead of any of that, I watch Conor walk away.

I let my head fall back against the couch and close my eyes. I’d planned on leaving, on forcing myself back to my apartment before I got too comfortable here, too used to the feeling of someone taking care of me, but after falling asleep against Conor, the thought of getting up suddenly feels impossible. Was it so bad to want to stay in this bubble for just a little while longer?

“Hope you don’t mind sandwiches. I guess I should’ve asked that before I made them.”

I open my eyes at the sound of Conor’s voice, and the look on his face makes me pause. There’s something different in it, something uncertain that doesn’t fit with the usual confidence he carries like it’s second nature.

“Sandwiches are good,” I say, watching the tension ease out of his shoulders.

It’s an odd thing to see on him. He forced his way into my life without hesitation, overwhelming and impossible to ignore, and now he’s second-guessing lunch.

“You should probably eat something softer, though, with your throat like that. I can order something better for you.”

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, quiet but real, catching somewhere between surprise and something else. It’s the contrast between controlling Conor and caretaker Conor.