Page 14 of My Fixation

“Fuck it,” I mutter, pushing myself up off the couch because sitting here thinking about it isn’t helping anything. It’s almost dinner time, and the hunger finally cuts through the anxiety just enough to get me moving.

I meal prep every week to keep things simple and controlled, but the thought of eating any of it right now makes my stomach turn. I need something different. Something that feels like a choice.

I head to my room and change into jeans and a t-shirt, the fabric sliding over my skin, catching slightly against the raised edges of my scars, a reminder that I can’t escape no matter how much I try not to think about them. Because who the hell is going to look at me and see anything else? Six foot seven. Two hundred and sixty pounds. A body built for fighting. And on top of that, I’m a bottom. Just one more reason. One more thing stacked against me.

Not that anyone would ever guess that just by looking at me. Add in the scars, the damage, the history written across my skin, and whatever chances I might have had feel like they drop straight to zero.

The Marines were supposed to be my family, my place, my people. Trent made sure that didn’t last. Now all I’ve ever really wanted feels even further out of reach. A house. Something quiet and steady. Kids running around in the backyard. A husband coming home at the end of the day to a warm meal, a clean space, and someone who is there for him without question. Someone who chooses him.

I want that. I want to be loved. But people look at me and don’t see any of that. They see the Marine. They see the scars. They see the size, the hard edges, the parts of me that look like they belong in a fight instead of a home. And they think they already know everything there is to know.

In truth, what I want doesn’t match what people see when they look at me. I want to be taken care of. A submissive, or pillow princess, like in one of my books. The thought slips in quiet and stubborn, something I’ve tried to ignore more times than I can count, something I tell myself is unrealistic, that it doesn’t fit with who I am or the life I’ve ended up in. But it doesn’t go away.

I want someone who sees past all of this and doesn’t just tolerate me, but wants me. Someone who can take control when I don’t have anything left to give, who doesn’t hesitate, who doesn’t doubt, who doesn’t look at me like I’m too much or not enough at the same time. And then afterward, when everything settles, when the noise in my head finally quiets, I want the opposite of that intensity. Something soft. Something steady. A hand brushing over my skin without expecting anything in return, a presence that stays instead of disappearing the second it’s over.

I know how it sounds. I know it doesn’t line up with the image people have of me, and maybe I should stop feeding into it. Stop reading about things that feel so far out of reach for me; they might as well be fiction. Because for a few minutes, it lets me imagine a version of my life where I’m not just surviving but wanted.

Exiting my apartment building, I’m hit with the warm afternoon air, the kind that settles over your skin and makes everything feel a little slower, a little heavier. I don’t live in the best neighborhood, but it’s not the worst either. It’s manageable.

I decide to walk to the little café down the street, needing something to get me out of my head for a while, even if it’s only for a few minutes. They have a decent selection of hot and cold sandwiches, nothing fancy but always solid, and the best red velvet cupcakes I’ve ever had. That alone is reason enough to go.

The bell above the door jingles when I step inside, and the smell hits me instantly: warm bread, sugar, coffee, all of it wrapping around me in a way that feels almost comforting. I love to cook and to bake. But I never do it. What’s the point when it’s just me?

The thought passes through my mind as I step up to the counter and order a club sandwich and, of course, a cupcake, because I’m not about to pretend I came here for anything else.

Once I have my food, I take a seat at a small table near the door, positioning myself so I can see everything that comes and goes without making it obvious. Old habits don’t go away. I watch people as they move in and out, letting my mind drift just enough to keep the edge off.

But it doesn’t last. That feeling creeps back in. Someone is watching me. I shift slightly in my seat, scanning without turning my head too much, trying to pick out anything that feels out of place, but everything looks normal. The more I think about it, the more I try to rationalize it, the more I start to wonder if it’s just me. Paranoia. If it’s Manny’s people keeping tabs on me, making sure I don’t step out of line, making sure I remember exactly who I belong to. That wouldn’t surprise me. Not even a little. Either way, there’s not much I can do about it. So I sit there, eat my sandwich, and pretend everything is okay. That I’m okay.

The bell rings out, sharp and familiar, and I look up without thinking. Any sense of normalcy I had been clinging to disappears instantly. Conor walks in like he belongs anywhere he steps, his presence cutting through the space without effort, drawing attention even from people who don’t realize they’re looking.

His hair is still perfect, like the chaos of life never touches him, and his body moves easily between the tables and chairs, controlled and confident in a way that makes everything around him feel smaller. Like the room adjusts to him. Not the other way around. My grip tightens slightly on my drink as I watch him, my attention locking in before I can stop it. He’s exactly what someone like me shouldn’t want. But exactly what I want: big, strong, and solid in a way that feels unshakable.

The fact that he’s bigger than me, even if it’s not by much, just adds to it in a way I don’t want to admit even to myself. I’ve learned my lesson on wanting the unattainable. And Conor is just that.

He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down without asking, the scrape of metal against tile loud enough to draw a few glances. He moves like he has every right to be here, like this was always going to happen. I don’t acknowledge him. Not a word, not even a glance.

I pick up my sandwich instead and take a bite, focusing on that, on the taste, on anything that isn’t the man now sitting directly across from me. If I ignore him, maybe he’ll go away. It’s a ridiculous thought, and I know it the second it crosses my mind, but I cling to it anyway, stubborn and childish to a degree I don’t have the energy to fight. I’m a toddler. If I can’t see you, then you can’t see me.

I chew slowly, deliberately, pretending I don’t feel his presence, but I feel the weight of his attention pressing against me.

Chapter 10

Conor

I told myself months ago, back when this fixation on Jaxon first started, that I wasn’t going to make contact. I would keep my distance and leave it at watching because I knew exactly what would happen if I crossed that line. It would get worse. And I was right.

Since the fight, since sitting across from him in that dingy diner and hearing his voice directed at me for the first time, something shifted in a way I didn’t plan for and sure as hell didn’t want. Now all I want is contact. Something more than distance and silence.

So now here I am, sitting across from him again, and he hasn’t even acknowledged me, hasn’t so much as looked up, like I don’t exist, like I’m not sitting right in front of him after everything that happened. Stubborn man. The thought hits immediately. This man is just as stubborn as my brother Ronan. I almost let out a sigh at that, but then I stop myself, because that’s not even fair. Ronan is stubborn. But Jaxon? Jaxon is something else entirely. Still, the comparison lingers for half a second before I shake it off.

Truth is, my entire family is a bunch of stubborn assholes. Every single one of us. Except Mom. She’s the only exception to that rule. That woman is the embodiment of patience and flexibility when it comes to us, somehow managing to handle seven grown men who should know better and choosing to love us anyway.

She accepts things that shouldn’t be possible to accept. She understands us in ways no one else ever has or will. And anyone who ever thinks it’s a good idea to hurt her or even speak badly about her will find out real quick what happens when you push the wrong people. Because the seven of us might be a problem on our own, but when it comes to her, we are something else entirely.

I decide to speed up this non-conversation with the two words I know will get a reaction from him.

“Manny Deluga,” I say, then wait.