I blink. “You can tell that from here?”
“I can tell that because it was obvious.”
Before I can comment on this budding expertise, Violet tries again. Same result. She huffs, cheeks pink, and glances back at us.
Jax shifts. Then, very quietly, he says, “She wants the fox.”
I look over. Sure enough, the prize Violet’s been side-eyeing the entire time is a stuffed fox with big button eyes and obnoxiously fluffy ears.
“You noticed?” I ask.
He shrugs, pretending boredom. “She keeps looking at it.”
He grumbles something that might be profanity in another language, but… he approaches the stall.
I stay back and watch as the teen running it perks up immediately—clearly thrilled to have a new victim. Jax studies the rings, the pegs, the trajectory. He picks up a ring and tests the weight like he’s about to conduct a physics experiment.
Then he throws.
The ring sails cleanly through the air and lands with a satisfying clink around the center peg.
Violet gasps so loudly half the carnival turns to look.
Jax does it two more times, because of course he does.
When the teen hands him the fox, Jax looks at it like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to accept or interrogate it. He walks back toward us, expression torn between awkward and quietly proud.
Violet beams. “You got it!”
He hands it to her with a small, almost shy nod. “Seemed important.”
She throws her arms around him without warning.
He freezes. Completely. Like someone has hit the pause button.
But when she lets go, there’s a tiny, stunned softness in his eyes that knocks something loose in my chest.
“Thank you,” she says, hugging the fox close. Then she spots her friends and lights up. “Mom, I’m gonna go with Emma and Rowan. They’re doing the lantern parade!”
I open my mouth to say no.
Jax beats me to it. “Stay where we can see you,” he says, voice firm but gentle.
Violet salutes dramatically and runs off. And then it’s just the two of us.
Lantern light reflects off the snow, turning everything golden. The air tastes like cocoa and pine. Kids shriek with laughter in the distance. Tiny bells jingle with every gust of wind. Jax stands beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tight—but not as tight as they used to be.
“She’s a good kid,” he says quietly.
“She is.” My voice slips out softer than I expect. “She… really likes you.”
He swallows. “She shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m—” He cuts himself off.
“Because you’re what?” I press gently.
