“Jax,” she said quietly. “We’re not going back tonight.”
He froze. Looked at her—really looked. Her eyes were steady, soft but unyielding in the streetlight glow.
“I can’t leave her,” he said, voice rough. “What if… what if she wakes up and I’m not there? What if this is the night?”
Aria stepped closer, didn’t let go of his wrist. “She told you to go home.”
“She made me promise,” Aria continued, voice low and careful, “that if you tried to stay all night again, I’d drag you home. She said you’d be no good to her tomorrow if you kept running on fumes. She said she’d sleep better knowing you were resting. And if anything changes—if anything at all happens—the respite home will call. They’ve got her monitored every second.”
Jax stared at the ground. The asphalt blurred. His chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a band around his ribs and pulled.
“I don’t want her to be alone,” he whispered. The words came out cracked, small.
Aria stepped right into his space then—close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body cutting through the night chill. She placed both hands on his chest, over his heart, steady and sure.
“She’s not alone,” she said softly. “The nurses are there. The machines are there. And she knows you’re coming back tomorrow.”
Jax’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes. Felt the first hot sting of tears he’d been holding back for days.
“I feel like I’m abandoning her,” he said, voice breaking on the last word.
“You’re not.” Aria’s thumbs moved in slow circles over his hoodie. “You’re giving her what she asked for. Peace of mind. You’ve been with her every single day, every single hour. You’ve held her hand, talked to her. You’ve done everything right. Now let her have this one thing—she wants to know you’re taking care of yourself too.”
He opened his eyes. Looked at her. Saw the quiet determination there, the way she wasn’t trying to fix him—just trying to carry some of the weight so he could breathe.
“Okay,” he said finally, the word barely audible. “Okay.”
She didn’t push for more. Just nodded, stepped back, and let him get into the driver’s seat. He drove them home on autopilot—through quiet suburban streets, past houses with lights still on in living-room windows, past the park where he used to push Nan’s wheelchair on sunny afternoons.
When they pulled into the driveway of the Paddington condo, the fairy lights along the fence were off, but the porch lamp wason—soft gold spilling across the front step like Nan had left it burning for them.
Jax killed the engine. The sudden silence pressed in.
Aria unbuckled her seatbelt but didn’t move to get out yet. She turned toward him in the dim glow of the dashboard.
“I booked a hotel room,” she said quietly, voice careful, like she was handling something fragile. “Just in case. I didn’t want to assume you’d want me here. I know this is… a lot. I know you’ve been alone with it all for weeks. If you need space, or time, or just to be by yourself tonight—I can go.”
Jax stared straight ahead at the garage door. His throat worked once, twice. The words felt heavy, stuck somewhere behind his ribs.
He turned to her slowly. The dashboard light caught the exhaustion in her eyes, the faint worry lines between her brows, the way her lips were pressed together like she was bracing for him to say yes, go.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said, voice low and rough. “I really want you to stay.”
She searched his face for a long second—looking for hesitation. She didn’t find it.
“Okay,” she said simply. A small, relieved breath escaped her. “Then I’ll stay.”
He nodded once—sharp, almost like he was afraid if he moved too slowly she’d change her mind. They got out of the car. The night air was thick with humidity and the sweet scent of frangipani. Jax unlocked the front door with hands that shook just enough to make the key scrape in the lock.
Inside, the house smelled like Nan—lavender candle wax, rosemary from the kitchen windowsill, the faint sweetness ofher favourite soap. Her slippers waited by the couch. The half-finished crossword still lay open on the coffee table, pencil resting in the crease. Jax paused in the hallway, staring at it like it might speak to him.
Aria touched his arm lightly—barely there, just enough to remind him she was still beside him.
He led her down the short corridor to the guest bedroom. The door was already ajar. Inside, the blue quilt Nan had bought years ago still covered the bed. The same quilt they’d tangled in that Christmas, laughing and breathless and alive in a way he hadn’t felt since.
He stopped in the doorway, memories crashing over him: her mouth on his, her quiet gasps, Nan’s knowing wink over breakfast the next morning like she hadn’t heard a thing through the thin walls.
Now the room felt different. Smaller. Sadder. The same walls, the same bed, but everything else had shifted under the weight of what was coming.
