My chest does this weird fluttery thing I immediately try to ignore.
“You being sick is kind of peaceful, not gonna lie,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You’ve been quiet for a full two minutes. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I flip him off without lifting my head. He laughs, and I hate how much I love the sound.
Then, his voice softens.
“If you ever actually lost your voice for real…I’d miss it.”
I freeze.
It’s barely more than a whisper, but it hits me like a punch to the gut. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s real—and I don’t think he even meant to say it out loud.
I look at him, and he looks away, like maybe he’s scared I’ll see something he’s not ready to explain.
I want to ask what he means. I want to ask why my stupid heart won’t stop racing when he says stuff like that.
But instead, I nudge his leg with my foot and pretend I’m too tired to talk.
"She's not mad at me?" I finally say, escaping the memory as I watch him add spices to the broth and stir in the chicken. The aroma fills the kitchen, warm and comforting, reminding me of simpler times.
"Why would she be mad? She knows we haven't talked much since college started, but she could never hate you. You're like the daughter she never had." He chuckles, turning to look back at me.
I stare down at the countertop, toying with my already too-short nails, trying my best not to start tearing at them. His eyes drop to my hands, and he walks over, pulling them apart.
The gentle way he touches me, the casual intimacy of it, sends a shiver up my spine. His hands are warm and calloused, but they’re oh so gentle as they envelop mine.
"Mads, hey." He brings his face down so we're eye level, and I let myself get lost in their depths. "They both love you, you know that. Nothing you do could ever change that either. Same with me."
My breath catches. My heart stumbles. "You love me?"
The words slip out before I can stop them, barely above a whisper, but Jaxon hears them. His hands still, his eyes staying locked on mine. There's no hesitation, no shift in his expression, just a simple, undeniable truth when he answers.
"Of course, I do. You're my best friend. Always have been, always will be."
The knot in my chest tightens, a mix of emotions clawing their way up my throat. His words should settle me, should feel familiar.He's always been there, always had my back, always been Jaxon.
But something about the way he says it, the way his voice is so steady, so sure—something about it rattles me.
I swallow hard, forcing a nod as he goes back to cooking like he didn't just knock the air from my lungs.
I focus on the rhythmic motion of his hands, the way he moves around the kitchen so effortlessly, the way he hums under his breath like this is second nature for him. Nothing about this moment seems as Earth-shattering for him as it is for me.
And maybe it's not.
Maybe this is just Jaxon being Jaxon.
So, I shove the weird, twisty feeling down deep and watch him finish cooking. My breath catches, but I force a small smile, tugging at the sleeves of my sweatshirt. "I haven't seen her in a long time."
He nods, sprinkling some salt into the pot. "You know she'd love to see you. Dad too."
But they didn’t want you putting their son’s future in jeopardy.
I clear my throat, pushing past the sudden heaviness. "So…the draft. What teams are looking at you?"
Jaxon stirs the pot, his focus on the food as he answers. "Coach has mentioned a few—New York, Philly, Baltimore, some others."
My stomach twists. "That's far."
