They don’t go anywhere. But he smiles. He listens. And he realizes something.
He can think of Claire now without falling apart.
The ache is still there. Probably always will be.
But it doesn’t break him anymore.
Because he's already been to the bottom.
Now—he’s clawing his way back up.
49
Collision
It’sbeennearlyayear since Jaxon clawed his way out of the mess. The bottles, the nights he couldn’t remember, the people he pushed away—long gone. He’s found his footing again. Focused. Centered. Steady.
Work has been great. Life, too. He’s rebuilt everything, piece by piece, and hasn’t looked back.
On this particular morning, nothing seems out of the ordinary. The office is quiet—slow, like most early weekdays. Jaxon sips his coffee while chatting with his receptionist, the easy banter filling the front lobby. A few phone calls come in. Then a walk-in or two. Just another day.
Until it isn’t.
Just after lunch, a man steps through the door—tall, broad, and fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket. He walks straight to the front desk and asks to speak with the branch manager.
“That would be me,” Jaxon says, offering a firm handshake. “Come on back.”
He leads the man into his office, closing the door behind them. The conversation begins like any other intake meeting. Jaxon runs through his usual questions, calm and professional. “What brings you in today? What services do you currently use? Anyone assisting you with finances?”
But something’s... off.
The man isn’t interested in answering. He’s short. Evasive. His agitation growing with each word Jaxon speaks.
Finally, Jaxon asks what he always does when things start to veer off course. “What exactly are you looking for—and how do you think I can help?”
That’s when it happens.
Without warning, the man lunges across the desk—hands out, face twisted in fury. The office erupts into chaos. Jaxon’s chair scrapes against the floor ashe catches the man’s arms, wrestles control, and forces him back toward the entrance.
Down the hall, the receptionist hears the commotion—slamming, yelling, muffled cursing—and sprints to the phone, dialing 911 as fast as her fingers can move.
Back at the front, Jaxon shoves the man toward the door, holding him in a restraint until he lets go. But the second Jaxon releases him, the man turns and throws a punch—landing hard under Jaxon’s left eye.
Blood rushes to Jaxon’s ears. But not rage. Just instinct.
Right hook. Left. Another hard right. The man crumples like a ragdoll.
Jaxon doesn’t revel in it. Doesn’t gloat. He grabs the guy by the arms, lifts him to a chair, and plants him there like a teacher setting a child in timeout.
That’s where he stays until the cops arrive.
The officers speak to the receptionist first, then walk over to the man in the lobby—his lip split, eye swelling fast, pride in pieces. When they make their way into Jaxon’s office, they already have a few questions of their own.
“We figured something was off when we saw the address,” one of the officers says.
“What’s the story?” Jaxon asks.
“His name’s Travis. From Georgia, according to his ID. Said he came here to confront you.”
