His knuckles whiten against the workbench. “I don’t want to ruin you.”
“You won’t.” My lips graze the base of his neck—a promise, a vow. “You’re saving me.”
His exhale shatters.
Slowly, like he’s afraid to believe any of this is real, he turns to face me. His hands rise—tentative at first—one framing my jaw, the other slipping to the small of my back as though someone might rip us apart any second.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice frayed and pleading.
“Then let me help you,” I breathe.
His defenses collapse all at once—a silent avalanche.
He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s learning the shape of hope. His thumb strokes my cheek, and he leans into me with a sincerity that makes my knees weak.
His forehead touches mine, eyes closed, voice barely a breath. “Ava…”
“I’m here,” I promise.
And in the quiet that follows, something shifts—subtle but irreversible—like the first step toward a future neither of us can pretend not to want.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jax
I shouldn’t have let myself need that much.
The promise of something I don’t know how to hold without breaking.
The storm outside has quieted, but the storm beneath my ribs hasn’t. I stand in the center of the bedroom like a man waking from a dream he wasn’t supposed to have.
I scrub both palms over my face. I don’t get to have that again. I don’t get to crave it. Caring was the first step toward losing everything once—why the hell would it end any differently now?
I pace until my boots have memorized every plank beneath them.
It wasn’t supposed to go this far. I wasn’t supposed to let myself feel this much. She isn’t supposed to look at me like she can see a future I don’t deserve.
Weak. Idiot. Fool.
I shove a fist against the wall, not hard enough to break anything except the tension threatening to implode in my chest. “No. You don’t get to do this,” I growl at myself. “You don’t get to want again.”
I told her I couldn’t care.
I force myself into the house before I can change my mind. The cabin is quiet except for the soft clatter of dishes in the sink. Violet is at school. Good. One less heart to shatter while I try to fix this mistake.
Ava stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a loose knot that somehow makes my lungs forget how to work. She turns slightly when she hears me, eyes steady.
That should make this easier. It doesn’t.
“We need to talk,” I manage.
She sets down the dish towel, turning to face me fully. No fear. No apology. Just honesty—open and devastating.
“Okay,” she says.
I rake a hand through my hair, searching for words that don’t feel like ripping out my own ribs.
“What happened…” My throat closes. I force the next breath. “It can’t happen again.”
