"You talk about him like a monument," I say. "Talk about him like a man. What was he like?"
Jax’s expression softens. The tension around his eyes loosens just a fraction. "He was... loud. Laughed so hard it shook the windows. He liked bad jokes and good whiskey. He couldn't cook worth a damn—burned water. That was my Mémère’s job."
"He sounds..." I search for the word. "Solid."
"He was the anchor," Jax agrees. "You would have liked him. He had a thing for strays."
"He must be proud of you," I say softly. "Holding it all together. Keeping them safe."
Jax looks down at his hands. "I don't know about that. I’m just trying to keep the roof from caving in."
"Well," I say, forcing a brightness into my voice that I don't feel, "at least you had a roof to start with. I don't even know who my parents were. I assume they were prone to bad decision-making, considering they left a baby in a fire station in December."
I laugh, reaching for my water. "I guess that explains my affinity for broken things. Genetics."
Jax doesn't laugh. He leans forward, invading the neutral space between us. The scent of him—cedar, whiskey, and that underlying heat—rolls over me.
"Don't do that," he says.
"Do what?"
"Deflect. You make a joke every time something hurts. It’s a shield."
"It’s an efficient coping mechanism," I counter, tightening my grip on the glass. "Humor reduces cortisol levels."
"Why clocks, Miranda?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You fix clocks. You obsess over 'em. You organize my tools. You count seconds when you're scared. Why?"
I look at the Christmas lights strung above us—cheap, flickering little stars in the gloom.
"Because clocks make sense," I say quietly. "Gears have rules. If Cog A turns, Cog B moves. There’s no ambiguity. No lies."
I trace the rim of the glass with my finger. "The foster system... it’s chaos. Entropy in action. You don't know whereyou're sleeping next week. You don't know if the new dad drinks or if the new mom locks the pantry. You have zero control over your own timeline."
I look at him. "But a clock? If I fix the mainspring, it ticks. If I align the escapement, it keeps time. It was the one thing in my life where, if I did the work, I got the expected result. I could control the time, even if I couldn't control anything else."
Jax is staring at me. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are burning.
" Control," he murmurs. "Is that what you think you're doing here? Counting ticks to control the fear?"
"I’m trying to keep the machine from flying apart," I admit. "Because if I stop fixing things, if I stop organizing... I might just realize how terrifying this actually is."
He reaches across the table. His hand covers mine.
It’s a shock to the system. His palm is rough, calloused, and impossibly hot. My hand disappears beneath his.
"You ain't alone in the chaos, Miranda," he says. His voice is low, a rough velvet slide against my nerves. "You got me."
I look at our hands. Pale skin against bronze. Mechanic against Wolf.
It defies logic. We are enemies. We are different species. I am a prisoner in his house. And yet, looking at him right now, with the rain hammering the roof and the firelight dancing on his scar... I feel a pull.
It’s not just gravity. It’s magnetism. It feels like two gears that have been grinding separately suddenly snapping into alignment.
"I feel like I know you," I whisper. The admission slips out before I can filter it. "That doesn't track. We met three days ago. But... it feels like I’ve known you forever."
