Page 27 of My Fixation

“This isn’t your life,” he snaps. “You don’t know what you’re stepping into.”

“I know enough,” I counter immediately. “I know you were left bleeding in a hallway. I know someone is still out there who did that to you. And I know you’re not in any condition to handle it on your own right now.”

The silence between us stretches, thick and charged, neither of us backing down, neither of us willing to give an inch. He shifts slightly, the movement small but telling, the way his body reacts betraying the pain he’s trying so hard to hide. That’s all the confirmation I need.

“You’re coming with me,” I say again, quieter this time but no less certain. “Whether you like it or not.” Because I’m done asking. He’s not walking away from me. Not again.

I grab his bag before he can protest again, slinging it over my shoulder like the decision has already been made. There is no version of this where he walks out of here alone. Then I place my hand on the small of his back to guide him forward. He stiffens for a fraction of a second. He comes with me, step by step, not fighting it outright, but not giving in completely either, his body moving forward while his mind clearly hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s leaving with me.

As soon as my hand settles against him, something shifts. Something immediate. It hits deep inside me. This is right, my hand belongs there. Like it’s been waiting for that contact and finally found it.

I keep my hand there as we walk, steady but not forcing, letting him set the pace even if it’s slower than I’d like, even if every careful step reminds me that he’s still hurt, still recovering, still not anywhere close to okay.

I haven’t touched him much. Not really. A few necessary contacts. The ice. His hair. That kiss on his forehead. My jaw tightens slightly at the thought of it.

Neither of us has said anything about it. And I’m not sure what I would say if he did. I didn’t plan it. I just did it. Because in that moment, he looked too vulnerable, too exposed, too alone. And something in me wouldn’t let me leave it like that. I don’t regret it. Not even a little.

I open the door to my Range Rover, the size of it practical more than anything else, built to fit someone like me without feeling cramped, and now, someone like him too. Jaxon pauses for half a second when he looks at it, his eyes taking it in, the quiet luxury of it, the kind of vehicle that makes a statement whether you want it to or not, and then he sighs. Like this is just another thing he doesn’t have the energy to fight right now.

He climbs in without another word, careful with his movements, still favoring his ribs even if he’s trying to hide it, and I close the door behind him before moving around to the driver’s side. By the time I slide into my seat, he’s already leaning back slightly, his head resting against the headrest, his eyes flicking toward me.

“So,” he says, his voice still rough but edged with something dry, something almost sarcastic, “where are you kidnapping me to?”

I huff out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, as I start the engine, the low rumble filling the space between us.

“Home,” I answer simply, pulling out of the hospital lot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then I glance at him. “My place,” I add, just to make it clear. And then, a little quieter. “Somewhere you’ll actually be safe.”

“I don’t know why I’m going along with this.” He says, laying his head against the headrest. “I probably should go back to the hospital to have another brain scan done.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your brain other than the concussion. I had a specialist look at it.”

He turns his head slightly toward me but doesn’t lift it from the headrest, his eyes half-lidded, still watching me even through the exhaustion.

“Of course you did,” he mutters, his voice dry despite the rasp. “Are you ever going to tell me what this is all about? Your mother was at the hospital, for fuck’s sake.”

I glance at him briefly before pulling my attention back to the road.

“Mom,” I correct automatically, my tone firm without being sharp. “Don’t ever let her hear you call her ‘mother.’ She hates that.”

“What?”

I explain, partly because he asked, and partly because it feels easier than answering the question he actually meant.

“She was raised in one of those old southern families where everything was ‘Mother’ and ‘Grandmother,’” I say, my grip tightening slightly on the wheel as I think back on what she’s told us over the years. “She said it always felt… distant. Formal in the worst way.” I exhale slowly. “Titles mattered more than the people using them.”

I glance at him again, making sure he’s still with me. “I think her family cared more about how things looked than what they actually were,” I add. “Social standing, appearances, all of that.” A small shake of my head. “She cut ties with them right after she married my dad.”

That part I respect. Always have. I let the silence sit for a moment after that, knowing full well I still haven’t answered his real question, knowing he’s going to circle back to it.

“Okay, so even your mom was at the hospital,” he says, putting just enough emphasis on the word to make it clear he heard me and is choosing to ignore the correction anyway. “Now explain why you think my life has anything to do with you.”

The question hangs there, heavier than it should be, because it’s not just curiosity, it’s a challenge, it’s distance, it’s him trying to put a line between us that I’ve already stepped over. I keep my eyes on the road for a second longer than necessary before answering, my hands steady on the wheel even if everything else isn’t.

“Because you made it my business the second you stepped into that warehouse,” I say finally, my voice calm but deliberate, not rushed, not defensive. He lets out a quiet breath that sounds suspiciously like disbelief, but I keep going before he can cut in.

“I saw you that first night and something didn’t sit right,” I admit, the words coming easier now that they’re out. “Not the fighting, not the crowd, not any of that. You.”

I glance at him briefly, then back to the road.