Almost two hours later, Madison groans dramatically and drops her pen onto the carpet before flopping backward with an exaggerated sigh.
"Nope. I'm done. My brain is officially fried." She stares up at the ceiling, arms spread out like she just collapsed from exhaustion. "I can't handle another equation, Jax. If you want me to survive, you need to feed me."
I smirk, stretching my legs out in front of me. "Oh, so now I'm responsible for your survival?"
She turns her head just enough to glare at me. "Obviously. I think I burned like a thousand calories just trying to keep up with your math-brained football player nonsense."
I chuckle, shutting my notebook and tossing it onto my desk. "Alright, alright. I'll make something."
Madison perks up, lifting onto her elbows. "Wait, make something? Like, you actually cook?"
I smirk as I push up to my feet. "What, you think I survive on protein shakes and meal prep from Mama Montgomery?"
She tilts her head, squinting at me. "I mean…kinda, yeah."
I shake my head, reaching down to grab her hand and pull her up. "Come on, smartass. I'll prove you wrong."
She lets me haul her to her feet, still looking a little skeptical, but I don't miss the way her lips twitch like she's fighting a smile, or the way her hands stays in mine just a few extra seconds.
And as we head downstairs to the kitchen, I realize something—Spending the morning with her, just being with her like this, feels way too easy, too right. And that smile she gave me when I walked into class? It's been replaying in my mind all morning, a promise of something I've been waiting for longer than I care to admit.
17
MADISON
Jaxon leads me downstairs, his grip warm and steady around my wrist, and my stomach grumbles loud enough to make him glance back at me with a smirk.
"Damn, you weren't kidding. You're about five minutes from starving."
I groan, dramatically letting my head fall back. "If I pass out, it's on you. You should've fed me before shoving algebra down my throat."
He chuckles, shaking his head as he guides me into the kitchen. The house is unusually quiet for a place packed with football players, though I spot a few protein shakers on the counter—proof at least some of them have been through here recently.
Jaxon walks straight to the fridge, pulling it open. "Alright, what are you in the mood for?"
I settle onto one of the barstools, watching him as I lean my elbows on the counter. The way he moves with such easy confidence makes something flutter in my chest. I try to ignore it.
"You're actually letting me pick?"
He throws me a look over his shoulder. "I'm feeding you, aren't I?"
I hum in thought, taking a moment to appreciate how thesunlight filtering through the kitchen windows catches the gold flecks in his brown eyes. It's the little things about him I've always noticed but tried so hard to ignore.
"Okay, what's your specialty, chef?"
His lips twitch, but he doesn't look away from the fridge. "That's not how this works. You tell me what you want, and I make it happen."
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes playfully. "Fine. Chicken and dumplings."
He pauses, then turns, one of his dark brows raised. "That's oddly specific."
I shrug. "It's what your mom used to make for us as kids. I haven't had it in forever."
For a second, his expression shifts to something softer, more nostalgic. "Yeah. She'd make enough to feed a damn army."
“Which worked, since you always had extra teammates walk in the door with us.” I smile, remembering how his mom used to ladle out heaping bowls for us, her kitchen always warm, always welcoming. I spent just as much time at the Montgomery house growing up as I did my own. His mom was like a second mother to me, always making sure I ate enough, always checking in when things at home got bad.
And then, life happened. Shit happened.
