A dream.
Fuck. Just a dream.
She exhales hard and glances at the clock.
Only twenty minutes. Not long. But long enough to wake up soaked in the aftermath of a fantasy that felt too real. Too filthy. Too Jaxon.
She stares at the ceiling, willing herself to fall back asleep.
But all she can think about is the feel of his mouth on hers.
His abs under her palms.
His towel, dropping.
And the filthy promise of everything that came after.
71
Echoes of Her
Hewashopingshe’dstep forward.
Just one more step. One more breath. One more inch closer, and it would’ve happened. But instead, he watches her leave—her silhouette slipping out of the fog like a temptation denied. The bathroom door clicks shut behind her, and Jaxon’s jaw ticks.
He exhales hard through his nose, turns off the water, and steps out of the shower. As steam clings to the mirror, he leans in close, gripping the edges of the vanity.
A slow, devilish grin curls across his lips. “That was a close one,” he mutters, like a man trying to convince himself he’s relieved she walked away.
He’s not.
He brushes his teeth in silence, but his thoughts are anything but quiet. They riot. Rage. Rewind the last ten minutes on a loop that gets darker with each pass. The way she stood there. The way her voice trembled. The way she almost said everything he’s been dying to hear. The truth of it sits on the tip of his tongue, unspoken and heavy.
By the time he climbs into bed, the storm outside is gone, but the one inside him is just getting started.
He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling fan as it spins slow and lazy—nothing like his thoughts. They’re spinning too, but they’re sharp. Fast. Dangerous.
What if I ask her to stay?
What if she says no?
What if she says yes, but only because she feels guilty? Or obligated? Or worse—what if she stays, but one day wakes up and realizes she made a mistake?
He turns to the side, sighing into the pillow.
"I can’t go through that again," he thinks. "I can’t lose my daughter. I can’t set fire to what we’ve built just to chase a maybe."
But then he thinks of her. Of Sara.
The way she laughed when Jaqueline smeared chocolate on her nose. The way her fingers felt curled into his on the porch swing. The way she looked at him—not like a man broken by his past, but like a man she could believe in.
Like home.
And damn it, that’s what she is.
Home.
“The truth is... I’m crazy about her,” he admits to the ceiling. “I’ve been lying to myself because if I don’t say it out loud, it’s not real. But it is. It’s so fucking real it hurts.”
