The key is cold in my palm as I stand outside my door. Is Jax back? Will I be walking into questions and suspicion? Or worse, the kind of silence that leaves my imagination plenty of room to spiral?
The lock clicks, and I nudge the door open, peering into the dark.
Moonlight is pouring across Jax’s bed. He’s sprawled on top, out cold, one arm flung above his head and his breathing slow and deep. In sleep, he looks younger, softer, all the hard lines smoothed out.
So he’s here. Safe. The sight relaxes me just enough that the fear feels sharper for it.
I ease the door shut, careful not to disturb him. The questions—the duel, his absence, how much he saw, what he suspects—will have to wait. The only thing I want now is a shower and unconsciousness.
Clean uniform in hand, along with the j
