"It's a precision operation." I lick sauce from my thumb. "Unlike your method, which involves inhaling."
Jax laughs. He shoves a fistful of fries into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. "See? Adaptable."
We eat in the Jeep, windows cracked to let out the steam. The food warms us from the inside, chasing away the chill of the estate. Jax tells a story about a trauma call where he stabilized a guy with nothing but duct tape and a straw—exaggerated, no doubt, but it pulls a laugh from me. A real one, not the polite noise I reserve for boardrooms.
"Home?" Jax asks when the wrappers litter the floorboards.
I nod.
Jax shifts into drive. The Jeep roars back onto the road.
His apartment building looms on the edge of downtown—a brick relic with fire escapes zigzagging the facade. Jax parks in a spot marked with faded yellow lines. We climb the stairs, my loafers slipping on icy steps. Jax unlocks the door on the third floor, shoulder-checking it open.
The place assaults my senses. Clothes drape over the back of a sagging couch. Empty coffee mugs cluster on the table like forgotten patients. A guitar leans against the wall, strings dullwith dust. The air smells of stale takeout and something metallic, like old surgical tools.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Jax says. He kicks off his boots, sending them thudding into the corner.
I step inside, coat still buttoned. The mess presses in, but tonight it doesn't grate. It feels like permission. I hang my coat on a hook overloaded with jackets.
Jax heads to the kitchenette—a narrow strip of counter cluttered with protein bar wrappers. He pulls a bottle from a high cabinet. Clear liquid sloshes inside. "Cheap vodka. The kind that strips paint. You in?"
"Pour."
He grabs two mismatched glasses— one a hospital mug, the other chipped glass. Ice clinks from the freezer. He fills them halfway, hands me one. "To dessert forks."
I clink my glass against his. The vodka burns down my throat, sharp and unforgiving. No smoothness, no refined notes. Just fire. I cough once, then take another sip.
Jax flops onto the couch, legs sprawled. "Sit. You're hovering like a resident on rounds."
I lower myself beside him. The cushions sink under my weight. Jax tops off our glasses. We drink, the bottle emptying faster than expected. Warmth spreads through my chest, loosening the knots from dinner.
"Tell me about Preston," Jax says. He swirls his glass, ice rattling.
I lean back, glasses fogging from the heat. "Preston. The spare heir. He's brilliant with numbers, but Father treats him like a faulty valve. Mother uses him as leverage against me."
Jax nods. "Sounds about right. Kid's got fire, though. That clove cigarette bit? Rebellion in progress."
"Perhaps." The vodka hits harder now. My words slur at theedges. "He asked to come with us. Imagine that—Preston York in a Jeep."
Jax laughs, deep and rumbling. He sets his glass down, arm brushing mine. "You were the star tonight. Standing up to them. That fork move? Gold."
Heat rises in my face, not just from the alcohol. "It was impulsive."
"Impulsive suits you." Jax's hand lands on my thigh, solid and warm.
I don't pull away. The room spins a little, the mess blurring into abstract shapes. I drain my glass. Jax refills it without asking.
We talk more—about surgeries gone wrong, patients who haunt us. Jax admits a case from Afghanistan, a kid who walked on an IED he couldn't save. His voice cracks on the details. I share stories about growing up, the unbearable expectations I always had placed on me as a York. The vodka strips away the filters. Words flow unchecked.
"You're not like them," Jax says. His face inches closer. "You're real. Messy under that ice."
"Messy." I snort. The word tastes foreign. "I'm controlled. Precise."
"Not tonight." Jax's fingers trace my jaw. "Tonight, you're mine."
The kiss starts slow, his mouth tasting of vodka and salt from the fries. I grip his shirt, pulling him closer. The couch creaks under us. Jax breaks away, stands, and hauls me to my feet. He leads me to the bedroom, door ajar.
The room matches the rest—bed unmade, sheets twisted, clothes on the floor. A lamp casts a dim glow. Jax kicks the door shut. He strips off his shirt, revealing the shrapnel scar twisting across his ribs, the tattoo sleeve inked with coordinates I don'trecognize. His muscles ripple with the movement, and I can't help but stare.
