Page 29 of My Fixation

And then the house comes into view. And everything in me goes still. It’s massive. Modern. It’s all clean lines, steel, and glass, sharp edges and open space, the kind of place that looks like it belongs in a magazine. The kind of place I used to spend hours looking at when I was planning a life I thought I’d have after the military.

I remember that version of me. The one who thought he’d have a home like this someday. Complete with a husband and a family. Room to build something that actually meant something. It was a dream. A stupid one, apparently.

Now I’m sitting in the passenger seat of some rich asshole’s car, being dragged into a life that looks exactly like what I wanted, except none of it belongs to me. And the guy who has it? He’s the same one who just turned my life upside down.

After he pulls into the largest garage I’ve ever seen, the space echoing slightly as the engine cuts off, I push the door open and step out without waiting for him, already turning toward the open exit with one goal in mind.

Leave.

He gave me my phone back at the hospital, probably thinking it would make me more cooperative, but all it really did was give me an out, and I fully intend to use it. I’ll walk to the end of the drive. Call a rideshare. Disappear back into my own life, however fucked up it currently is.

“We need to talk.”

His voice follows me, firm but not raised.

“No, we don’t,” I shoot back without slowing, not even bothering to turn around.

“Please, Jaxon.”

That stops me. Not because of the words. Because of the tone. I turn slightly, just enough to look at him over my shoulder.

“I need to know what’s going on,” he continues, stepping forward, his voice tighter now. “I need to know how this is my fault. I thought I was saving you from getting hurt that night.”

I spin around fully, the anger already rising, ready to throw it back at him, ready to make him feel exactly what I’ve been carrying since this all started. But the words don’t come. They stall out, caught in my throat.

He’s pacing. Back and forth across the garage floor, his hands dragging through his hair again and again, like he’s trying to physically work something out of his own head. He’s no longer controlled or composed. Not like the man who walked into that cage without hesitation. He looks frustrated. It’s like he actually doesn’t understand.

I was ready for a fight, ready for arrogance and entitlement. For him to act like he knew better. But this? This looks a lot more like someone who genuinely thinks he helped and doesn’t understand how badly he didn’t.

He stops pacing. Like someone hit pause. His eyes lock onto mine, and the shift in him is immediate, the restless energy gone, replaced with something far more focused, far more intense, and there’s something in that look I wasn’t expecting. Something closer to desperation.

“Explain this to me,” he says, his voice lower now, steadier, but there’s something underneath it that wasn’t there before. “Please, Jaxon. I need to know how I caused this.”

I exhale slowly, the tension in my chest tightening before easing just enough for me to think. I hate that he affects me. I hate that after everything, after finding out he’s been watching me for months, after everything that’s happened, the fact that it was him doesn’t send me running the way it should. If anything, it settles something. That realization alone pisses me off.

“Fine,” I mutter, stepping toward him, closing the distance even though my body protests immediately, my ribs aching from the movement, from the ride, from everything I’ve pushed through to even get this far. I sway slightly, just enough to notice. He notices too.

“Let’s go inside,” he says quickly, moving to open the door before I can argue. I don’t fight him. Not this time.

The second I step inside, I stop. Because what the hell. The garage opens straight into a kitchen that looks like something out of a damn magazine, and for a second, I just stand there, staring, my brain struggling to process it all at once.

It’s massive. Open. Double ovens are built into the wall. Stainless steel everywhere. Sleek surfaces, polished and perfect. I don’t even see a fridge at first, which means it’s hidden, built into the cabinetry like everything else, designed to blend in instead of stand out.

Jesus. It’s huge. And I’m just standing there, taking it in like an idiot, because I’ve never actually been inside something like this, only seen it in pictures, only imagined what it would be like to have something like this as part of my life.

I finally shake myself out of it, forcing those images away before they can take root, before they can turn into something I’ll regret letting myself feel. Me in this kitchen cooking for him. It’s a fantasy, a stupid one. Not worth the effort it takes to even dream about it. I push it down hard and follow him deeper into the house, my steps slower now, more measured, my eyes taking everything in whether I want them to or not.

We move into the living room, and it hits just as hard as it did in the kitchen. Maybe harder. The space opens up even more, wide and expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that rise toward the ceiling and stretch across the back of the house, letting in light and offering a full view of the property beyond. Expensive in a way that doesn’t need to be obvious to be known. The furniture is real and looks comfortable. It should feel warm and inviting. But it doesn’t.

That realization settles in slowly, creeping in the longer I stand there. This is his house. There’s no denying that, but it doesn’t feel like a home. It feels empty somehow. Like everything is here except the part that actually makes a place lived in.

I push that thought away. Not my business. I take a seat on the large overstuffed couch, and yep, it’s just as comfortable as it looks.

“Explain.” The word is delivered differently this time. Controlled and commanding.

I feel it immediately, the shift in him, like a switch flipped somewhere between the garage and here. Whatever crack I saw earlier has been sealed back up, replaced with the man who walked into that cage without hesitation, without doubt.

He sits beside me on the couch, close enough that I’m aware of him, of his presence, of the heat coming off his body, but not touching. Everything about him is deliberate. I glance at him, really look this time, and yeah, he’s back in control. Something about that pisses me off more than when he was pacing.