Her fingers slide up my chest, gripping my shoulders before tangling in my wet hair, pulling me even deeper into her, like she’s as desperate for this as I am, like she’sstarvingfor it.
Forus.
The realization knocks the breath from my lungs.
She pulls back just enough to catch her breath, her foreheadresting against mine, her lips still parted, pink and swollen fromme.
Her eyes flutter open, and I swear?—
Thatlook.
It’s everything.
Raw. Real. Undeniable.
Like she’s finally seeing what I’ve known all along.
Like she’sdonerunning.
She’s finally letting herselffall.
I brush my thumb over her cheek, tracing the raindrops clinging to her skin, and she shivers—not from the cold, but fromme.
“Jax,” she whispers, her voice barely there.
I let out a slow, shaky breath, pressing my forehead more firmly against hers, grounding myself in this moment, inher. “I know, baby. I know,” I murmur, my voice thick, rough.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, her body leaning into mine, and for the first time in weeks, the weight in my chestlifts.
The storm inside mequiets.
Everything isrightagain.
Becauseshe’s here.
Shechoseme.
50
MADISON
Istare at the ceiling, watching the early morning light filter in through my curtains. The space beside me feels too empty, too cold—a reminder that Jaxon is gone.
Three days.
Three days of Pro Day preparations, of NFL scouts and drills, of the future he's worked his entire life for.
I should be happy for him. Iamhappy for him. But that doesn’t stop the gnawing worry in my chest, doesn’t quiet the fear that everything is about to change. That just when I’ve finally figured out how to stay, Jaxon will be drafted to some team across the country—leaving me behind.
My phone buzzes with an email, breaking the spiral of my thoughts. I roll over with a sigh, pushing myself out of bed, already counting the hours until Jaxon calls tonight.
The smell of fresh coffee tells me Lyla is up. I find her at the dining table, surrounded by textbooks and papers, red curls piled on top of her head, oversized glasses perched on her nose.
“Morning,” I mumble, heading straight for the coffee pot.
“Fresh pot,” she says without looking up. “Made it twenty minutes ago.”
I pour myself a cup, eyeing the mess of stuff in front of her. “When did you go to bed last night?”
