For a man who hates company, hates attention, hates being seen at all… He let us in.
And for reasons I can’t name yet, that sits warm and unsettling in my chest.
Chapter Thirteen
Jax
I spend the following morning pretending I can out-stubborn proximity.
In theory, the cabin is big enough for three people. In practice, every hallway feels built precisely to funnel me toward Ava Dawson every time I try to escape. I go to the kitchen—she’s already there, hip perched against the counter, hair in a warm, messy knot, laughing at something Violet said. I retreat to the living room—she walks through two seconds later to grab a blanket. I check the woodpile on the porch—she appears behind me asking if the storm has shifted.
The universe is mocking me. Or maybe punishing me. Hard to tell the difference these days.
So I bury myself in repairs. A loose hinge on the bathroom door. A wobbly stair tread. A list of imaginary maintenance tasks that I create just to stay out of her orbit.
It doesn’t work.
Around midday, I’m tightening a screw on the pantry door when I hear her footsteps and instantly feel my spine lock up like a man caught somewhere he shouldn’t be.
“You’re avoiding me,” she says.
Not a question. A diagnosis.
I keep my eyes on the hinge. “I’m fixing the pantry door.”
“You’re avoiding mewhilefixing the pantry door.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not avoiding you.”
She huffs a soft, incredulous laugh. “You practically sprinted out of the kitchen when I walked in this morning.”
“I don’t sprint.”
She steps closer—too close. Heat rolls off her, that warm, stubborn glow she carries like armor. “Fine. You evacuated at a brisk, emotionally stunted pace.”
I finally look at her. Big mistake.
Her eyes are bright with irritation and something else—something sharp and curious that digs under my ribs. Her cheeks are flushed from the fire. A strand of hair curls against her jaw, begging to be touched.
My pulse stutters.
“I’m not avoiding you,” I repeat quietly. “I’m… giving you space.”
Her eyebrows lift. “By disappearing into the walls like an offended ghost?”
I set the screwdriver down harder than necessary. “Ava—”
“No,” she cuts in, arms folding. “If you’re angry about something, say it. If you’re uncomfortable, say it. If you want us out—”
“I don’t.” Too fast. Too honest.
She blinks, startled.
Damn it.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to find my footing, but the floor is already tilted beneath me. “I’m not angry,” I say, quieter. “I just… don’t know how to do this.”
Her voice softens—not pitying, not invasive. Just human. “Do what?”
