Jaxon doesn’t answer right away. Just tugs me a little closer, like maybe he needed this too.
“Sometimes I get it right,” he murmurs. “Not often. But sometimes.”
I lift my head, just enough to look at him.
His eyes are already on me.
There’s no performance in them. No flirtation. Just quiet intensity. Real feeling.
It hits me then—this isn’t just him being Jaxon-the-charmer. He means it. All of it. The snacks, the shoulder, the offer to justbe hereinstead of pushing for more.
My heart stumbles again, and this time, I let it.
His gaze meets mine, a question there.
A question I know the answer to, even if it’s new.
So, I lean in.
He meets me halfway, his lips firmer and softer than I could’ve ever imagined. It’s a first kiss like they write about in songs. The ones it takes rom-com actors fifteen tries to even come close to. It starts soft. Easy. Familiar. The kind I said was off-limits.
He rests his hand on my jaw, his thumb brushing just under my ear like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
I sigh against his mouth, and he pulls me even closer.
Suddenly, we’re making out on my couch like two people who don’t have years of history or fear or emotional landmines between them. Like we’re just a couple on a Thursday night. Because maybe that’s who we are now that I’ve forgiven him.
His fingers find the hem of my sweatshirt but don’t push further. Just rest there, grounding us both. My hands twist into the front of his shirt, anchoring myself as my mind spins with too many feelings I haven’t named yet.
When we finally break apart, both a little breathless, I rest my forehead against his.
“This feels…easy,” I whisper.
“It does,” he says, voice low. “Itis. The best things are always easy.”
My stomach flips in that dangerous, glowing way that has nothing to do with coaching or casual anything.
And for the first time, I wonder what it would feel like if hedidn’tleave. Or if I went too.
But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to be the person who doesn’t know real from fake.
Instead, I curl into his side and press my lips to the edge of his jaw. A small kiss. A promise without words.
We turn on another movie, one neither of us pays attention to, and explore each other in a way that feels more personal than anything else has up to this moment.
Chapter thirty-seven
Jaxon
Theskyisturningthe orange-and-gold mixture I equate exclusively with Wild Bluffs, and despite the heat of the summer day, my skin is dry—something it’d never be in Nashville. Everything here cracks a little when the wind blows—grass, dirt, old porch planks, me. It’s drier, sharper. Nothing lush about it. You have to dig for softness here.
Something I never attempted to do with my dad. Something he never tried to do with me.
I’m sitting by the firepit, watching the falling sunlight flicker over the edge of a whiskey glass I haven’t touched. I’m idly rearranging the red lava rocks in the firepit, moving them to one side before shifting them back again. I lit the fire an hour ago just for the noise when the silence of the house and my dad’s room became too loud. Crackling helps me think. Or at least, it drowns out the thought spiral I’ve been free-falling into since last night.
I kissed Izzy.
And it wasn’t part of the fake-dating deal we made weeks ago.
