Ashes & Asphalt

Chapter Nine - Anchors and Storms

The house felt different with her in it. Not haunted—just full again.

Jax moved around the small kitchen like muscle memory was the only thing keeping him going. The coffee machine hissed quietly, filling the two mismatched mugs he found in the back of the cabinet. He hadn’t been here since the day he let her go, not really. He came to check on it, once or twice, but he never stepped fully inside. There hadn’t been a reason. Until now.

The floor creaked. He didn’t have to look to know it was her.

She leaned against the doorway, his shirt draped around her like it was always meant to be there. Her bare legs, the way her hair was messy from sleep and s*x and the weight of all that history—they hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

“You always make coffee this early?” she asked, voice still thick with morning.

Jax glanced back, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Don’t always have someone to make it for.”

She stepped into the room, and for a second, it was just like old times. Like nothing had cracked between them. Like Ghost hadn’t died. Like she hadn’t run.

She took the mug he handed her. Their fingers brushed. A flicker of heat ran up his arm, settling somewhere under his ribs—dangerous and familiar.

“I haven’t kept food here,” he said, filling the silence. “Not since—”

He stopped. The rest hung in the air like smoke.

Taylor nodded and took a sip of the coffee. “I figured.”

Jax leaned against the counter, watching her. There was something different in her eyes—clearer maybe, but tired too. Like she was still fighting to breathe through all the pieces grief had shattered her into.

She sat down at the table like she used to, like she’d never left. And Jax stood there for a beat too long before joining her.

“We could go out,” she said after a moment. “Get breakfast. Pretend we’re normal for a morning.”

He huffed out something close to a laugh. “You think that’s who we are now?”

She shrugged, cradling her mug. “Maybe we could fake it. Just for today.”

He looked at her across the table. The same mouth that used to whisper I love you now offered him a chance to pretend. And maybe that was enough. For now.

He leaned back in his chair. “Pretending was never really our thing.”

She met his gaze head-on. “Then maybe it’s time we learn how.”

And for the first time in months, Jax let himself wonder if there might still be something waiting for him on the other side of the ruin.

Even if it had to start with pretending.

The ride into town felt like a time warp.

Taylor fit behind him like no time had passed. Her arms looped around his waist, her chin lightly brushing the back of his shoulder every time the wind shifted. Jax rode slower than usual, not because he had to—but because he wanted the moment to last. To soak it in before life inevitably pulled it apart again.

They didn’t speak on the ride. They didn’t need to.

He pulled up outside a tucked-away corner diner, the kind of place people passed without noticing. The kind of place he used to bring her when they wanted real food and real quiet. She slid off the bike, brushing her hair back from her face as she looked around like it was a memory coming back to life.

“I can’t believe this place still looks the same,” she said.

He smirked. “Nothing here really changes.”

They walked in together, shoulder brushing shoulder. A booth in the back called to them like it always had, and without speaking, they slid into it. The waitress gave them a glance, did a double take, then smiled like she remembered too but had the sense not to say anything.

Taylor rested her chin on her hand, studying him like she used to when she thought he wasn’t looking. “This feels weird.”

Jax raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

“Like I never left. Like we’re still us.” She tilted her head, eyes soft. “Do you feel it too?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at the worn menu and then back at her. “Yeah. It’s like muscle memory. Just...less angry.”

That got a small smile out of her, the kind that hit him low and stayed.

Their food came—bacon, pancakes, coffee that tasted like burnt oil—and they ate like they used to. Sharing bites, trading glances. Every move unspoken, but understood. She wiped syrup from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. He stole the last piece of bacon off her plate. They were reckless like that before too.

“What now?” she asked quietly, after a while.

He looked at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “You tell me.”

Taylor hesitated, her eyes dropping to her hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet. I’m not the girl I used to be, but...being here with you doesn’t scare me anymore.”

Jax leaned back. He didn’t press. He never had to.

“Then start there,” he said. “Start with not being scared.”

She nodded slowly. And in that moment, with sunlight pouring through the blinds and her foot nudging his under the table, it didn’t matter how broken they’d been.

What mattered was that—for right now—they weren’t anymore.

They didn’t rush to leave the diner.

The air between them had shifted—settled, almost. Like there was a quiet truth humming just beneath the surface, waiting to be spoken.

Jax paid the bill while Taylor lingered by the door, her eyes scanning the old posters tacked on the wall. When he stepped beside her, she pointed to a weathered flyer for a tattoo shop just down the road.

“You remember that place?” she asked.

He did. He and Ghost got their first matching ink there—back when they thought pain was proof of something real.

“You thinking of getting something?” he asked, eyes steady on her.

Taylor nodded, the motion slow, deliberate. “For him. For Elias.”

The name landed between them like a held breath.

“I want something that stays. Something no one can take from me,” she added. “Something that makes me feel like… he’s still with us.”

Jax didn’t speak for a long beat. Then, “Yeah.”

She looked at him, searching. “You too?”

He nodded once. “Same place. Same ink.”

A small silence passed between them, this one heavy but whole. He reached out, tracing her forearm lightly, then wrapped his fingers around her wrist—the spot just below the inside of the elbow.

“Here,” he said. “We put it here.”

Taylor met his gaze. “So he’s always close.”

They left the diner without another word. Rode through town until the familiar neon buzz of the shop pulsed into view. The artist didn’t ask questions when they explained what they wanted—just listened and nodded like he understood the weight behind it.

The design was simple. Three interlocking lines: one for her, one for Jax, and one for Ghost. A trinity. A memory. A scar they chose.

When it was Taylor’s turn, Jax sat beside her, his hand around hers as the needle buzzed into her skin. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

When it was his turn, she did the same for him. Rested her fingers lightly on his thigh. Grounded him in a way no one else could.

They walked out into the late afternoon sun, bandages tight, wrists sore. But it wasn’t about pain.

It was about carrying someone you loved with you—even when they were gone.

“You okay?” she asked him softly.

Jax looked down at the fresh mark on his arm, then at her matching one.

“I am now,” he said.

As they stepped off his bike, the hum of the afternoon dimmed around them. Jax glanced sideways, brushing his thumb across the fresh ink beneath the gauze on his arm.

“You coming back to the compound?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Taylor hesitated, her helmet still in her hands. Her eyes met his—soft, sure, but distant in the way people are when they’re trying to protect the last bit of themselves.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

He nodded. No pressure, no plea. Just respect for her pace.

“I’m staying at the B&B outside town. I need... space. I’m not ready to walk through those gates again.”

He wanted to ask her if she'd ever be ready. But he didn’t. He’d already learned that love wasn’t always about holding on—it was about knowing when not to ask someone to.

Jax watched her ride off in a cab, the car growing smaller in the distance until she turned the corner and vanished like smoke in the wind.

He turned toward his bike, slipping on his gloves, when he noticed her.

Lark.

She leaned against the front of her car across the lot, half-shadowed beneath the awning of the small strip of stores. Pale blue sundress this time, her hair down, soft waves shifting in the light breeze. There was a stillness to her, but her eyes—those piercing blue eyes—were locked onto him.

And the tattoo on his arm.

She approached slowly, measured steps. Not confrontation. Curiosity. Maybe even disappointment.

Jax didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

“She the one you warned me about?” Lark asked, her voice calm, but not cold. “Taylor?”

He gave a small nod.

Lark’s eyes drifted to the edge of the bandage that peeked beneath his rolled-up sleeve. “You got that for her?”

His gaze was steady. “Got it for someone we both lost.”

Lark offered a half-smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I know,” Jax said. “But I don’t like being misunderstood either.”

Her fingers brushed hair from her face. “You two look like unfinished business.”

He didn’t respond. Because what could he say to that? She wasn’t wrong. But Taylor wasn’t the whole story either. Not anymore.

Not after everything.

Lark took a slow breath, nodding once, like she was choosing to accept whatever truth hung between them, even if it stung a little.

“I hope whatever that was gave you peace,” she said softly. Then she turned, leaving him with the buzz of his bike and the ache of a scar still healing.

And Jax… rode back to the compound alone.

Back at the compound, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the yard as bikes cooled under the fading light.

Jax found Kellan out back, working on one of the newer bikes they’d picked up. The guy was steady with his hands and quiet with his words—two things Jax respected more than most.

“Got a minute?” Jax asked, voice low but edged with something unreadable.

Kellan glanced up, wiping grease off his palms with a rag. “Always.”

They sat on the back step, the kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy hanging between them for a long beat. Jax lit a cigarette, took a drag, exhaled slowly.

“You don’t know Taylor,” he said finally. “Not really.”

Kellan didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

“She was with me before. With Ghost too. Things were complicated but... honest.” Jax flicked ash into the dirt. “She left. I didn’t think she’d come back. And now she’s here again. Like she never left.”

Kellan leaned back on his elbows, gaze thoughtful. “So what are you asking me?”

Jax turned to him, eyes sharp under the weight of too many buried things. “What do you see when you look at her? No history. No opinions filtered through Dani or Diesel or anyone else. Just your gut.”

Kellan was quiet for a long moment.

“I see a woman who’s trying to pretend she isn’t drowning,” he said finally. “Who still looks at you like she’s trying not to fall apart. Like maybe being near you makes her feel again—and that scares her.”

Jax looked away, jaw tight.

“But,” Kellan added, “I also see a man who’s not sure if she’s his anchor or the storm.”

That landed hard in Jax’s chest.

Kellan stood, tossing the rag on the workbench. “You wanted objectivity. There it is.”

Jax nodded once, slowly. He didn’t thank him. He didn’t have to.

They understood each other now.

And somewhere in that truth, Jax realized—he had a choice to make.

Soon.