It haunts.
47
Hollowed Hours
Thesunlightcutsthroughthe curtains like a blade, slicing across Jaxon’s closed eyes until he’s forced to wake up. But waking only makes it worse—because it means yesterday still happened.
His head pounds. His chest aches in ways no amount of sleep or whiskey could fix. He shifts, body heavy, like grief has its own gravity. There, beside the bed, sits a glass of water and a bottle of Ibuprofen—placed with care he doesn’t remember earning. He blinks against the light. The weight of yesterday settles again like a body on his chest.
Still wearing the clothes he passed out in, Jaxon drags himself toward the bathroom, leaving yesterday in pieces on the floor behind him. Shirt. Shoes. Jacket. Pride.
Inside the shower, with one hand braced against the tile, he lets the water scald him, hoping it might burn the memory away.
But memory is cruel.
Because the moment he closes his eyes, she’s there—Claire. Right there, back pressed to the wall. Her laughter, her breath, her hands pulling at his shirt. The sting of her nails down his back. Her legs wrapped around him like she was afraid to ever let go.
And yet—she let go.
He drops to the floor of the shower, knees curling to his chest, letting the spray hit him like a punishment. The only thing he can hear is the sound of his breathing. That, and the silence she left behind.
He stays there until the water runs cold. Until there are no more tears. No more fight. Just hollowness.
Eventually, Jaxon stumbles from the shower. Trails of water follow him to the edge of the bed—the same bed where she whispered I love you like it was avow. He stares at it, then turns away like it betrayed him. Or maybe like he betrayed himself by believing something so temporary could be real.
He dresses in silence. Clothes feel foreign on his skin. Everything does now.
Downstairs, he finds a pillow and blanket folded neatly on the couch. Then the sound—faint, familiar—of someone moving in the kitchen. When he rounds the corner, Trevor’s standing at the stove like it’s any other day.
“Morning,” Trevor says, like they didn’t just witness Jaxon’s world burn.
“I don’t remember much,” Jaxon mutters.
“Mike took your keys,” Trevor explains, handing him a glass of orange juice. “I picked you up. Got you home. And don’t worry—I didn’t undress you or tuck you in.”
Jaxon lets out the faintest laugh. It feels wrong—like a cracked mirror trying to reflect sunlight. “Thanks, man.”
“That’s what we do.”
The two eat in relative silence until the front door swings open.
“Alright ladies,” Carter announces with a grin, “let’s get this weekend started.”
Jaxon shakes his head. “Shit. I had enough to drink last night to drown a small army.”
Carter slaps the beer down on the counter. “That was the warm-up.”
Trevor leans forward with a crooked smile. “We made some calls. The crew’s coming.”
He pauses for effect, then adds with a smirk, “Hell, even Chase’s ass will be here.”
Jaxon raises an eyebrow. “No shit?”
Trevor nods. “Said he was halfway through a six-pack and halfway down HWY-17 when I called him.”
Jaxon turns slowly toward the window. The same one she used to stare out of when the storms rolled in. He watches the breeze bend the trees. The world is still turning. Even if he feels like he’s standing still in the middle of the wreckage.
He doesn’t say anything.
