Page 39 of Jax & Knox

"Need help?" Jax asks.

I hesitate, then nod. "Actually... yeah. If you don't mind."

Knox steps forward. "I'll take him."

I hand Owen over, and Knox cradles him against his chest with surprising gentleness.

"Come on, little man," Knox murmurs. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I follow them into Owen's room, watching as Knox lays him down on the changing table and starts unbuttoning his onesie.

"You're good at this," I say softly.

Knox glances at me. "I've got a lot of nieces and nephews. You pick things up."

I smile. "Well, you're a natural."

Knox doesn't respond, but I see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands are extra careful as he changes Owen's diaper and dresses him in his pajamas.

When he's done, he picks Owen up and rocks him gently, humming something low and rough under his breath.

Owen's eyes start to droop, his little body going limp against Knox's chest.

After Owen’s breathing finally evens out, Knox carefully lays him in the crib and pulls the blanket up to his chest. We both stand there for a second, watching him sleep.

Jax appears in the doorway, voice low. “He out?”

“Yeah,” Knox answers.

I reach over and brush a soft curl off Owen’s forehead, then step back. “Okay. Let’s let him sleep.”

We ease the door almost shut and walk back down the short hall. The living room feels quieter now, the only light coming from the lamp in the corner and the soft glow of the kitchen behind us. Jax drops onto one end of the couch. Knox takes the other. There’s space in the middle, and for a second I hesitate.

Jax pats the cushion between them. “C’mere.”

I sit. The couch dips a little under my weight. Neither of them moves away.

Knox stretches one arm along the back of the couch behind me. Not touching, just there. Jax leans forward, elbows on his knees, then glances over at me.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Just… quiet.”

“Quiet’s nice,” Knox says.

A small silence settles. It’s not awkward, exactly, but it’s full of something I don’t have a name for yet.

Jax’s knee bumps mine. He doesn’t pull it back. “Dinner was really good, Ainsley. I meant that.”

“Thank you.”

His hand rests on his own thigh, close enough that his pinky almost brushes mine. When I don’t move away, he lets his fingers drift over until the side of his hand rests against mine. Warm. Steady.

“You always cook like that?” he asks. “Or was tonight special?”

I huff a soft laugh. “Tonight was survival. I had three things in the fridge and a jar of sauce. Not exactly five-star.”

“Still better than anything we’ve made this week,” Knox says. His fingers brush the top of my shoulder, light as a question. When I don’t tense, he lets his hand settle there, thumb stroking once along the curve of my arm.