Page 25 of Jax & Knox

Knox reaches over and takes him gently, settling him against his own chest. Owen doesn't protest. He just snuggles in, his little hand gripping Knox's shirt, and falls asleep within minutes.

I watch them together, my heart aching in the best way.

"He trusts you," I say quietly.

Knox looks down at Owen, his expression soft. "Good."

Jax pours wine into plastic cups and hands one to me. "To new beginnings."

I clink my cup against his. "To new beginnings."

We sit there in comfortable silence, watching the sun set over the property. The wildflowers sway in the breeze. The porch swing creaks softly beneath us.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself feel it.

Hope.

Not just for survival.

But for something more.

Something real.

Later, after they leave, I tuck Owen into his beautiful new crib in his bright, playful room. I stand in the doorway for a long time, watching him sleep, feeling the weight of everything that's happened today.

The cottage is becoming a home.

These people are becoming my family.

And I'm terrified.

Terrified of wanting this too much. Terrified of losing it. Terrified of what happens if Justin finds us.

But underneath the fear is something else.

Something I haven't felt in years.

Belonging.

I sit on the couch in the dark cottage, pulling a blanket around my shoulders, and let myself believe, just for tonight, that maybe, just maybe, this could be real.

That I could have this.

That I could keep it.

And as I close my eyes, I whisper into the darkness:

"Please let this be real."

SIX

JUSTIN

The house is too quiet when I push through the front door after a twelve-hour shift that left my shoulders tight and my temper already simmering under the surface. No thin wail of a baby cutting through the stillness, no soft shuffle of bare feet across the linoleum, no low murmur of some mindless show she liked to leave running in the background just to fill the empty spaces. The silence lands heavy, almost physical, and my hand drifts to the service weapon still holstered at my hip out of pure reflex before I force myself to unbuckle the duty belt and set it aside.

“Ainsley.”

The name comes out flat, carrying none of the patience I no longer feel like offering. Nothing answers. I move through the living room first, eyes scanning every corner the way they do on a call, cataloguing absences instead of threats. The kitchen sits untouched, dishes still in the sink from whatever half-assed meal she managed that morning. The bedroom door stands open, and the second I cross the threshold the truth hits me square in the chest with enough force to steal the air from my lungs.