He doesn’t answer, but he turns to look at me. Really looks at me.
And I feel that look all the way down to my bones. A slow warmth spreads between us, soft and frightening. His breath clouds in the cold between us, mingling with mine. The lanterns flicker. Snow drifts lazily like feathers.
I don’t move toward him. I don’t have to.
He steps closer first. His hand grazes mine—barely a touch, but enough to light up every nerve ending I own. My breath catches.His eyes drop to my mouth, then flick upward again, conflicted, aching, drawn.
“Jax,” I whisper.
Something in him breaks. Or gives in. I’m not sure which.
He leans in slowly—like he’s afraid he’ll spook us both—and when his mouth touches mine, it’s not hungry or frantic or wild.
It’s soft. Gentle.
A question instead of a claim. A beginning instead of a collision.
His lips brush mine once, hesitant, reverent—then again, deeper this time. My fingers curl into the front of his jacket, pulling him closer without meaning to. His hand cups the side of my jaw, thumb trembling slightly against my cheek.
It is sweet. And devastating.
And over far too soon.
He pulls back first, breath unsteady, eyes open in a way I’ve never seen before—bare, stunned, undone.
“Ava,” he says, like he’s not sure what to do with my name in his mouth.
I open my lips to speak—
But Violet’s laughter rings out from across the square, bright and familiar and grounding.
Jax steps back.
The space he leaves behind aches.
But the air between us is changed now—charged, warm, pulsing with the echo of a kiss that should’ve never happened… and yet feels like it was always waiting for us.
Chapter Fifteen
Jax
The storm rolls in faster than any forecast predicted.
By the time we finish cleaning up from dinner—Violet humming under her breath while rinsing dishes, Ava laughing softly at something she said—the wind has already begun to claw at the cabin walls. The temperature drops so sharply the windows fog from the inside. Snow taps steadily against the glass. Then harder. Then harder still.
My shoulders stiffen.
Storms have never bothered me before. They’ve always been a kind of shield—loud enough to drown out thoughts, isolating enough to keep people away.
Tonight, the sound turns my pulse thin and tight.
Maybe because I’m not alone anymore.
Ava glances toward the window. “Already? They said it wouldn’t hit until tomorrow morning.”
“Forecast was wrong,” I mutter, listening to the rising pitch of wind. “It’s becoming a whiteout fast.”
As if to prove me right, the night outside vanishes behind a solid wall of snow. The cabin gives a small shudder—just the wood settling, just the storm flexing—but Violet jumps anyway. Her eyes widen, pupils darting.
