Jax had survived ambushes, rogue attacks, and one memorable bar fight. Nothing had prepared him for this sickbed performance.
As soon as they stepped into Meredith's chambers, a staged, delicate little cough drifted from the bed — the kind of cough someone practiced in the mirror.
Meredith lay nestled in silk sheets and an excessive number of pillows, arranged like she was posing for her own death portrait. Her hair was perfectly brushed. Lips glossed. Zero sign of injury anywhere.
Fin and Jax wore identical expressions: polite concern layered over pure internal suffering.
"Are you alright, Princess?" Jax asked smoothly, respectful enough to pass for genuine — if you didn't know him.
"Oh, Gamma Thorne," Meredith sighed, voice trembling with the fragility of a dying swan, three seconds
