Page 24 of My Fixation

“Is he yours?”

There was no hesitation.

“Yes.”

The answer came out of me before I could think about it, before I could analyze it or justify it, and even now I can’t fully explain it. I’ve seen this before. First with Declan, and then with Ronan. I understand what it looks like. I just don’t understand why it feels like this. Because when I look at Jaxon, I don’t just see a man in trouble. I see something broken. Something worn down and pushed too far. And every instinct I have tells me to take care of it. Of him.

When I can’t watch him, my mind fills in the gaps without permission, wondering if he’s eaten, if he’s sleeping, if he’s safe, things I don’t give a fuck about when it comes to anyone else. But with him I do.

“Did you hear me?” Mom’s voice pulls me back to the present, her hand squeezing my forearm just enough to ground me. “Let him tell you in his own time,” she says gently. “Right now, just keep reminding him that he’s safe.”

I nod once, even though she already knows I heard her.

“Your dad and the rest are looking into Henry,” she adds, her tone shifting slightly, more focused now. Good. Because if Henry is behind this, he’s not walking away from it.

I watch her walk away, her posture straight, her steps steady and assured, confidence in every movement. She always moves like that. Like nothing is out of her control. I stand there for a second longer, letting that settle, before turning back toward the room.

Jaxon is exactly where I left him. Same position. Same stillness. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and even, and the tension that had been pulling at his face earlier has eased just enough to make him look almost peaceful.

I step closer without thinking, drawn back to him in a way I’ve stopped trying to question, and just stand there for a moment, looking down at him, taking him in without the noise, without the fight, without the walls he keeps throwing up every time I get too close.

He’s not what people see at first glance. Not just size and strength, but also the hard edges that come from everything he’s been through. Lying here like this, stripped of all of that, there’s something else. Something quieter. Something that doesn’t match the life he’s been forced into.

His features are softer when he’s not guarding himself, the tension gone from his brow, his mouth relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before, and for the first time since I found him, he doesn’t look like he’s bracing for the next hit. He just looks tired.

And something in my chest tightens at that, deeper than anything else I’ve felt so far. Because he shouldn’t look like this.

I see it the moment he becomes aware of me again, the subtle shift in his face as some of that tension creeps back in, like even half-conscious, his body knows to brace, knows not to fully relax. His eyes open slowly, heavy and unfocused at first, before they settle on me, and even through the pain, through the exhaustion, there’s awareness there.

He lifts his hand just slightly, the movement weak but intentional, motioning toward the cup of ice. I grab it without a word, stepping closer as I scoop a small amount onto the plastic spoon and bring it to his lips. He opens for me, and I give him one spoonful. Then another. Then a third. Watching him the entire time.

His lips brush against the plastic each time, soft despite everything, the contrast catching me off guard more than it should, pulling my focus for a fraction longer than necessary before I force it back where it belongs. On taking care of him.

When he turns his head slightly, the smallest indication that he’s done, I don’t push it. I set the cup back down. Give him space.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then he looks at me. Really looks at me. And when he speaks, his voice is rough, shredded from whatever damage was done, each word dragged out through gravel and pain.

“What do you want from me?”

The question lands heavier than anything else he could have asked, not because of the words themselves, but because of everything behind them. The expectation and resignation. Like he already believes there’s a cost.

I hold his gaze, not looking away, not softening it, but not hardening it either.

“I don’t want a damn thing from you, Jaxon,” I say, my voice steady, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Then, quieter, “I want to give you everything.”

Chapter 16

Jaxon

What the fuck does he mean he wants to give me everything? That doesn’t make sense. Nothing in this world is free. At least not in my life. There’s always a cost, always something expected in return, always a catch that shows up when you least expect it. I don’t know how to process what he just said because it doesn’t fit into anything I’ve experienced.

I try to ask him. Try to push the words out, but my throat won’t cooperate. The sound catching before it can even form, leaving me stuck with the question burning in my head and nowhere to put it.

“It’s okay, Jaxon,” he says, his voice softer now, like he can see the struggle even without me saying it out loud. “Get some rest.”

His hand moves through my hair, slow and careful, nothing like the roughness I’m used to, nothing that demands or takes.

“The doctor will be in soon to check on you,” he continues. “We can talk when you wake up.” He leans closer to me. “I’m not going anywhere.”