Page 11 of My Fixation

It’s not a new truck, not even close, but it runs, it’s clean, and it’s mine, and that matters more than anything else ever could. One of the few things in my life that actually belongs to me. Growing up in foster care, I never had that. Nothing was ever truly mine. Not the rooms I slept in, not the places I stayed, not even the clothes on my back. Everything I had was passed down from someone else, worn before me, lived in before I ever touched it. I can count on one hand the number of new things I was given in the eighteen years I spent moving from place to place.

The Marines were supposed to change that. They were supposed to be my fresh start, my chance to build something real, something solid. A family made out of choice and loyalty instead of blood. Brothers and sisters who had my back, held together by a true bond. For a while, I thought I had that. I thought I had more than that. And now, nine years later, I’m right back where I started.

Alone.

All because I let myself believe in something more, opened myself up to a future with someone who was supposed to want me just as much as I wanted him. I shake my head, forcing those thoughts away before they can take root, before they drag me somewhere I don’t have the time or energy to go. I need to focus on the here and now.

I pull into the lot and cut the engine, the sudden quiet settling around me as I sit there for a second, staring through the windshield without really seeing anything. Suddenly, headlights sweep across the lot. A sleek black G-wagon pulls into the spot beside me, the engine purring quietly as it comes to a stop. Of course it is. It fits him.

He doesn’t say anything while he waits for me to join him on the sidewalk, doesn’t try to fill the silence or rush me, just turns and heads inside. He doesn’t wait to see if I’m following him.The second I step through the door, the smells hit me all at once. Fried food and stale grease, fresh coffee cutting through it, and something that smells suspiciously like burned toast lingering underneath it all. Comforting in a way I can’t explain.

Conor moves through the diner without hesitation and slides into a booth on the far side of the room, taking the seat that faces the door without even thinking about it. Which means my back will be to it. My anxiety spikes immediately, sharp and instinctive, tightening in my chest as I pause beside the table, my eyes flicking from the seat to the door and then back to him without meaning to. He notices. Nothing seems to get past him.

Without saying a word or making it into something bigger than it is, he shifts, sliding out of his seat and switching sides with me like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t inconvenience him at all. Relief hits fast and heavier than I expect, and I let out a quiet breath as I slide into the booth, my shoulders easing just enough to take the edge off.

“Sorry,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Military habit.”

He nods once. “Understood.”

That’s it. No questions or judgment. Just acceptance.

A waitress appears a second later, dropping two menus onto the table with a distracted smile before moving on just as quickly. I pick mine up and immediately notice its sticky surface, a faint sheen catching the light. I glance closer. Yep, that’s syrup.

“Who is Henry to you?”

Conor doesn’t look up when he asks it, his attention still on the menu like he’s asking something simple, something casual, but there’s nothing casual about the question itself.

The abruptness of the question catches me off guard. My fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the sticky menu as I stare at him for a second, trying to figure out how to answer that, trying to decide how much I should say to a man I just met. Because the truth? The truth isn’t simple. I glance down at the table, at the streak of syrup catching the light, using the distraction as a second to gather my thoughts, to steady myself before I speak. My jaw tightens as I lift my gaze back to him.

“He’s the one who tells me when I fight, who I fight, how many times I step into that cage,” I continue, my voice quieter now, more controlled. “And if I don’t listen, it won’t end well for me.”

I pause, letting that settle between us. His next question is impossible for me to answer without letting him in. And I can’t do that.

“Why?”

Chapter 8

Conor

Jaxon drops his gaze back to the menu, and I sit there watching him for a second, feeling my patience start to wear thin in a way that doesn’t happen often. I’m not used to being ignored, and definitely not used to people avoiding me when I ask a direct question. He’s doing both.

My fingers tap once against the table, a quiet, controlled movement, but before I can push it, before I can press him for an actual answer, the waitress comes back.

“You guys decided?” she asks, her tone bright but distracted.

Jaxon looks up at me, like he’s waiting for permission, and I give him a small motion with my hand to go ahead.

“I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger and fries,” he says, “no onion. No tomato, please.”

“You want the fries with it?”

She’s chewing gum while she talks, and I can see it, the slow, repetitive movement every time she opens her mouth, and it grates more than it should. I close my eyes for a second and take a slow breath, forcing the irritation down.

“Yeah,” Jaxon says. “And I’ll have a Coke.”

“And for you?” she asks, turning toward me.

I don’t look at her.