Afternoons were lazy swims or short drives along the river. Evenings meant barbecues, cold beers, and Nan retiring early with a knowing “Don’t stay up too late, you two.”
Mid-week they took the convertible along the coast—top down, wind tearing through their hair, radio blasting old Aussie rock. Surfers Paradise was crowded, but Jax found a quieter stretch of beach, rented wetsuits from a shack that smelled like neoprene and sunscreen.
He taught her the basics on the sand first—how to pop up, where to place her hands, how to read the wave. Then into the water. Her first few attempts ended in spectacular wipeouts—foam everywhere, board flying, her surfacing with a gasp and a laugh that echoed down the beach.
“You’re a natural,” he teased, swimming over to pull her up by the hand. Salt water streamed down her face, clinging to her lashes.
“Liar,” she spluttered, shoving him playfully. “You probably rode waves before you could walk.”
They sat on the sand after, towels wrapped around their shoulders, sharing fish and chips from a greasy paper cone. The sun was dropping low, painting the sky in pinks and golds. That’s when the stories came easier.
Jax stared at the horizon, voice quieter. “Nan raised me after my parents died. Mum to breast cancer when I was eleven. Dad to lung cancer two years later—I was thirteen when he went.”
Aria’s hand found his on the sand, small and warm, squeezing gently.
He exhaled slowly. “Mum fought hard. Chemo, radiation, the whole thing. She was gone in under a year from diagnosis. Dad… he smoked his whole life. Lung cancer hit fast. By the time theycaught it, it was stage four. He lasted about eighteen months after Mum. Nan moved us in with her the day after the funeral. Quit her part-time job at the library to be there full-time. Made sure I kept going to school, kept racing karts. I was sad—god, I was sad. Cried myself to sleep for months. But even then, I remember thinking I had to make them proud. Mum used to say, ‘Drive fast, but drive smart, Jax.’ Dad just wanted me to smile through it all.”
He turned to look at her, eyes steady. “I had a way with people—always did. Learned early how to connect, how to charm them onto my side. Get a mechanic to tweak my engine for free, a sponsor to front some cash. Made so many friends, so many connections over the years. Felt lucky as hell.”
Aria leaned her head on his shoulder, hair still damp from the ocean. “I can’t imagine anyone thinking badly of you.”
He chuckled softly. “Yeah, well. I’ve loved my life just being good to people. Making sure they have a laugh, feel seen. It’s paid off more than any contract.”
But driving back that afternoon, Nan was on his mind more than the road. He’d been talking to her every week all year—video calls, quick texts, her voice always steady over the line. She’d sounded tired sometimes, mentioned “a bit of a cough” or “the stairs are getting steeper,” but she’d laugh it off. Seeing her now, though—the way her dress hung, the shadows under her eyes, how she leaned on the kitchen counter more than she used to—it wasn’t just age. It was loss. Visible, quiet loss. And she kept shrugging it away.
???
Aria
The fairy lights swayed gently above the patio, casting soft golden flecks across the pool’s surface. Aria stretched her legs along the edge again, letting her toes trail slow, lazy circles through the warm water. The night air wrapped around her like damp silk—humid, heavy with the scent of frangipani and lingering barbecue smoke and the faint salt still clinging to her skin from the beach that afternoon. Her body felt loose in a way it rarely did anymore: sun-warmed, pleasantly heavy, unguarded.
Christmas in Seoul had always carried a particular sheen—polished, performative, cold at the edges even when the city lights blazed brightest. She and Min Jae used to spend the holiday in their penthouse, all sleek glass and white marble that reflected every camera flash. They’d order from the same handful of restaurants because cooking felt like unnecessary effort, open bottles of wine too expensive to finish, and arrange themselves near the windows for the inevitable long-lens shots: casual, curated, convincing. Below them the Han River glittered like spilled sequins, but the whole evening always felt staged.
This was nothing like that.
This was bare feet on warm tiles, cicadas filling the quiet spaces between conversation, Nan—Evelyn—laughing until she had to dab at her eyes with a napkin, her thin shoulders shaking with genuine delight. This was Jax watching his grandmother with that steady, protective gaze he tried to disguise behind easy smiles and quick deflections. This was Aria herself, sitting still for once, letting the moment settle inside her chest instead of hurrying to capture it, post it, move on from it.
She hadn’t wanted to accept the invitation at first. Back in Abu Dhabi, when Jax had asked—casual, almost throwaway, as ifhe were suggesting they grab coffee after qualifying—she had agreed initially but had second thoughts. Later that night, alone in her suite, she had stared at her phone for a long time before dialling Lena.
“He’s asked me to Brisbane,” she had said quietly. “For Christmas. With his grandmother.”
Lena had paused, the kind of pause that carried weight. “You’re due back here the twenty-sixth for the studio event. But… Min Jae and that actress are everywhere right now. Every headline, every party photo, every airport walk.”
The words had landed like small, cold stones. Aria had closed her eyes. “I know.”
“Take the time,” Lena had said, softer. “Breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like him.”
So she had called Robert next. Her manager answered briskly, already sounding halfway through three other conversations.
“Australia for Christmas?” he repeated, surprise edging into approval. “Fine. Studio’s booked from the fifth of January. They want you walking in with at least three finished demos. You’ve been writing?”
“Yes,” she had answered, and it was true. The songs had come in fragments—melodies caught in hotel rooms, lyrics scratched onto the backs of call sheets during late-night flights. They were raw, restless things: verses about hands that knew exactly where to press, choruses that burned like fever, bridges that ached with the kind of want that made her thighs clench just remembering. Jax had slipped into every line without permission—his low laugh against her throat, the slow drag of his thumb along her hip bone, the way he looked at her like she was something worth savouring. Explosive. Churning. Hot in a way that made her skin feel too tight.
She had called her mother last. The kitchen in LA had been loud in the background—plates clattering, her aunts’ overlapping voices, the familiar chaos of holiday prep.
“You’re not coming home?” her mother had asked, voice catching just once.
“I’m sorry,” Aria had said, meaning it. “I need something different this year.”
