But nothing feels normal.
Ava moves around the kitchen in a soft sweater and leggings, hair half up, half down in a way that looks… dangerous. Every time our eyes meet, it’s brief—tentative, warm, startled. Like we’re both touching a bruise we don’t know how to name.
We don’t talk about the night before. Not a word. Not a glance too long. Not a breath too loud.
But the memory hums under my skin—her mouth, her hands, the quiet tremble of her body against mine. Heat flares up my spine just thinking about it. I tamp it down. Hard.
This is safer. Quiet. Careful.
Or it’s supposed to be.
Around midmorning, Violet wanders into the living room with a sheet of paper held behind her back, grinning with that shy confidence only a teenager can pull off.
“Jax?”
I look up from the stove—where I’m pretending the coffee needs intense supervision. “Yeah?”
“Close your eyes.”
I hesitate. “Why?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Because that’s the rule.”
I sigh but do it. Ava’s soft laugh drifts from the counter, and I try not to react to the warmth that blooms in my chest just hearing it.
“Okay,” Violet says. “Open.”
I do.
She holds out a drawing—messy colored pencil lines, scribbles, shadows, bright blues and soft grays. It takes me a second to understand what I’m seeing.
A figure—tall, broad, wrapped in snow gear—standing in the middle of a blizzard. Heavy snow falling. Wind curling in angry spirals around him. And at the bottom, in looping purple marker:
THE GIANT SNOW HERO
My throat closes.
For a long moment, I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Something hot and sharp and painfully familiar punches straight through my ribs.
Violet beams. “Do you like it?”
I swallow hard. “It’s… good. Really good.”
“Mom says you don’t like storms,” she says, nibbling her lip. “But you saved people anyway. That’s what heroes do.”
Ava shifts, her gaze flicking to me—soft, aware, too knowing. “Violet—”
“I know, I know,” Violet interrupts. “You hate compliments.” Then she hands me the picture anyway. “But I wanted you to have it.”
I take it slowly, fingers brushing the edge. The paper trembles in my hands, though I pray to God it’s subtle enough they don’t notice.
A hero. If she only knew.
“Thank you,” I manage, voice rough. “I… thank you.”
She grins bright and proud, then flops onto the couch with her homework.
Ava watches me for a beat longer, her expression gentler than I deserve. I fold the picture carefully—too carefully—and excuse myself before anything cracks open.
