His mouth twitched. "Fine."
"You fixed my monitor," April said. "A lot. You always acted annoyed about it."
Jax exhaled through his nose, then closed his eyes briefly.
"I unplugged it," he said.
"You—what?"
"Power cable. You could’ve fixed it yourself. But you put in tickets. So I came up."
She recalculated. The pieces clicked. "You did it so you could see me?"
"I did it so I had a reason to be near you. The printer jams. The paper misloads. I rerouted your tickets to myself for two years; since the laptop."
She could see it now. The way he’d hovered at the edge of her orbit. Chargers appearing. Fixes too fast to be coincidence.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
“Okay.” Her gaze drifted back to the server rack, to the parts manifest still covering the card. "That card, the one you covered up. What is it?"
Jax went very still.
"You don’t have to—" April started.
"No, you should know. You’re the one who wrote it."
He pulled the parts manifest away. The card was there. Corners worn. A Post-it on top: reasons not to quit.
"Two years ago," he said, quieter, "you brought your laptop down here because it was blue-screening every fifteen minutes. Everyone else treated it like a crisis and me like a vending machine. Fix the thing. Close the ticket. Disappear."
He took a step closer. Close enough to see the faint purple scar near his jaw.
"And then you came back the next day with a thank-you card."
"What?"
"A card," he repeated, like the concept was still insane. "Handwritten. Actual paper. You spelled my name right. You said thank you like it mattered. Like I was a person and not the goblin you summon when Outlook starts crying."
His eyes flicked to the blue glow of server racks.
"I kept it, pinned it up where I could see it when everything else was… noise. Because nobody thanks me, April. Not like that. Not ever."
She’d spent three years with Chad feeling like furniture with a pulse. And this guy had seen her.
"Jax," she said quietly.
He looked at her like he was bracing for impact.
"Next time you want something. To be near me, just ask."
"Ask," he echoed, like he was testing the word in real-time.
"Yes," April said. "If you’re going to—" she motioned vaguely between them, "—try and find reasons to be around me, you ask."
"Always," Jax said. Immediate, uncomplicated agreement. Like she’d just handed him the clearest, most beautiful set of requirements he’d ever written down.
