And I pulled away.
Jaxon clears his throat and grabs ingredients from the fridge, the muscles in his arms flexing—not that I notice. "Alright, chicken and dumplings it is."
I blink, surprised he's serious. "Wait, you actually know how to make it?"
He gives me a dry look. "I was raised in the Montgomery household, Mads. Mom didn't let me leave for college without knowing how to take care of myself. It might not have everything she put in it, but we’ve got the basics."
I grin, watching as he starts cutting up some chicken. His hands move with practiced precision, and there's something undeniablyattractive about a man who knows his way around a kitchen. "She'd be proud."
He smirks, one of his dimples popping through. "She'd be prouder if I actually brought you home for dinner like she's been begging me to."
My stomach flips. "Wait—what?"
Jaxon keeps chopping, completely unfazed. "Yeah. She won't stop asking about you, wants me to bring you over for Sunday dinner."
I gape at him. "You told her we've been hanging out?"
His smirk deepens. "Of course. She asks about my life, and you're in it again, so…" He shrugs like it's nothing, like he doesn't realize the way my chest just squeezed tight.
I swallow, trying to play it cool. "And what did you say?"
Jaxon pauses, looking up at me, his hazel eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Told her I'd ask you."
My throat goes dry. Because this—his mom, their home,him—isn't just some random family dinner invite. This is something that reminds me of the past, of all the things I had before everything changed.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, glancing down at the counter before starting to tear at my nails. "I—I don't know, Jax."
I can feel his gaze on me for a second before he nods, turning back to the stove. "Just think about it."
I don't answer, because I don't know how.
Instead, I watch him cook, mesmerized by the way he moves around the kitchen so effortlessly. There's something intimate about being here with him like this, watching him prepare food just for me. That he remembers a dish from our childhood, that he's willing to take the time to make it—it makes my heart ache in the best possible way. It takes me back to another time he took care of me when I caught the worst cold known to mankind our junior year.
Everything hurts. My throat, my head, my pride. I’ve been wearingthe same hoodie for two days, and my nose is so red, I could guide Santa’s sleigh.
There’s a knock at the door, but I don’t move. It’s probably my dad with more medicine I won’t take.
But then, I hear his voice.
“You look like death.”
I groan and pull the blanket over my head. “Go away.”
Of course he doesn’t. Jaxon Montgomery has never once listened when I told him to leave me alone, especially when I actually wanted him to stay.
He sets something on my nightstand, and I catch the smell before I open my eyes—chicken noodle. Of course.
“Chicken noodle, extra salt—because I know how dramatic you get when you’re sick,” he says, way too smug.
I peek out from under the blanket, and yep—there he is, smirking, hair still messy from practice, wearing that hoodie I always pretend not to stare at. He looks annoyingly perfect. I probably have dried snot on my face.
“You’re the worst,” I rasp.
He just grins, like I said something sweet. “You say that now, but wait till the Tylenol kicks in and the soup changes your life.”
I try to sit up, but everything aches. He tosses me a pillow before I even ask. Gently, like he’s done this a hundred times.
He pulls out a Gatorade and a box of tissues, setting them down like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just show up here without asking and bring me everything I need.
