Page 66

Morning light spills softly through the curtains, bathing the room in muted gold. It should feel peaceful. Instead, I find myself studying every faint crease of tension still lingering on Jaxon’s face. Even asleep, he doesn’t fully relax. Like his body has forgotten how. Anger flickers through me again. Directed at every person who helped put that haunted look in his eyes. Every single person who taught Jaxon that safety was temporary.

My hand slides slowly up and down his back beneath the shirt he stole from me yesterday. Possessiveness curls low in my chest at the sight of him wearing my clothes. Another reaction I’m still learning to understand. Jaxon shifts slightly in his sleep and presses even closer. I tighten my hold on him automatically, careful not to wake him.

Because right now, resting peacefully in my arms, he looks younger somehow. Softer. Like the weight of the world finally loosened its grip on him for a few hours. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Holding onto Jaxon with one arm, I type out a message to Mom with the other.

Me: I think Jaxon needs to see a therapist.

I stare at the screen waiting for a response. Mom has always been an early riser. Sure enough, the typing bubble appears almost immediately. My fingers continue moving slowly through Jaxon’s hair while I wait. I want her advice before he wakes up. I need a plan. Last night was one of the few times in my life that I genuinely felt inadequate.

I didn’t know how to help him. Not really. I could ground him. Calm him down. Hold him together while the panic consumed him. But fixing the deeper problem? The years of trauma buried inside him? I don’t know how to do that.

Mom: Have you asked Jaxon if that’s what he wants?

I frown immediately.

Me: It’s what he needs.

The response comes quickly this time.

Mom: You can’t make that decision for him. He has to be willing to accept the help.

A growl leaves my throat before I can stop it. Beside me, Jaxon shifts slightly in his sleep. Instantly, I still. Waiting until he settles again before looking back at my phone.

I understand what Mom is saying. Intellectually, it makes perfect sense. Jaxon has spent most of his life having choices taken away from him. Forcing him into therapy would only be another version of that. I know this. Yet every instinct inside me rebels against simply waiting while he suffers. I want to solve the problem, eliminate it, protect him from it. And the fact that I can’t is becoming increasingly frustrating.

Me: If he agrees, do you have a contact?

Mom: Yes, contact me when he does and I will arrange for him to come to you

I set my phone back on the nightstand. The screen goes dark. Leaving me alone with a conversation I now need to have and no idea how Jaxon is going to react to it.

I don’t do variables. I don’t like them. In my life, I deal in facts, data, and known outcomes. Whether it’s target acquisition or business negotiations, the process is always the same. Gather information. Assess risk, then follow the most logical course of action. Simple and efficient. Predictable.

Emotions complicate things. Trauma complicates things even more. There’s no clear line of thinking here. No guaranteed outcome. No way to calculate how Jaxon will react if I bring up therapy. He might agree, or he might shut down completely. He might think I see him as broken.

The thought irritates me immediately, because that’s not what I think at all. Jaxon survived things that would have destroyed most people. That doesn’t make him weak. If anything, it makes him one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. But surviving isn’t the same thing as healing. Last night proved that.

My gaze drops to the man sleeping against me. Morning light spills across his face, softening the sharp lines tension usually leaves there. Even asleep, he stays close to me. Trusting me enough to let his guard down. Another variable, and one I never expected.

Because somewhere along the way, helping Jaxon stopped being about curiosity or obligation. Now the thought of failing him feels almost unbearable. And that is very unfamiliar territory for me.

Jaxon stirs against me and slowly opens his eyes. For a moment he simply stares at me. Sleepy and disoriented. Soft in a way he rarely allows himself to be when fully awake. Then awareness settles in. I feel the exact moment he remembers where he is. Who he’s curled up against.

He immediately tries to pull away. I don’t let him. Tightening my arms around him, I run my fingers slowly through his hair. The tension leaves him almost instantly.

“How do you feel?” I ask quietly.

“Fine.” The answer comes far too quickly to be the truth.

I raise an eyebrow slightly. “What’s wrong, A Chroí?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then he lets out a long breath against my chest. The warm air tickles my skin. My hand stills briefly in his hair. This is where he belongs. Like my mind settled on that fact days ago, and is only now bothering to inform me.

“I haven’t slept that well in…” He trails off before shaking his head slightly. “I don’t even know how long.” His voice is rough with sleep. Honest in a way it rarely is when he first wakes up. “Usually I wake up constantly.” His fingers tighten into a fist and then his hand goes flat on my chest. “Or the nightmares do.”

Something cold twists inside my chest at the quiet admission. Because despite everything he survived, despite the military training and the controlled way he carries himself, Jaxon says it like he expects sleepless nights to simply be part of his life. Like peace is something temporary. I tighten my hold on him slightly.