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“One of Harlow’s?” he asked.
I nodded slightly. “That’s probably what got my imagination going a bit too well when I saw the flashlight. Of course I chose her freakiest book.” I ran my good hand through my hair because God knows what it looked like. My pajama pants hung beneath my bump, and a plain light pink sleep tank—too small for how far along I was—was practically shrink-wrapped to my chest and stomach. At least I was wearing a bra. A flimsy one, but it was something.
“First-aid kit?” he asked.
“Umm, the bottom drawer to the right of the sink.” I tried to rotate my wrist and winced. Maybe not.
He cut me a sideways glance when a hiss of pain left my lips. “Leave it steady. You should go in and get it checked tomorrow.”
“I don’t think it’s broken,” I told him.
“I must have missed the time you gained X-ray capabilities with your eyes.”
“Perk of pregnancy.” I tilted my head. “And aren’t you a giant hypocrite? Remember when you slashed your arm open on a jobsite, rinsed it off with water and told Wade to put some duct tape on it when it clearly needed stitches.”
Jax pushed a few things aside in the cabinet, eyes locking briefly on mine. “And look at how well that turned out. Arm didn’t fall off or anything.”
“That’s your barometer of success?” I snorted. “It’s an actual miracle that you’re still alive.”
“No argument there,” he muttered. Arms flexing underneath the kitchen lights, I watched through lowered lashes as I tried to pinpoint why this felt different.
No safety net. That was a big one. But there wasn’t one the day before either when I gave him The List.
God, was I a secret control freak? Maybe it was the times I didn’t expect him, and didn’t have time to prep what I was going to say or do that we had moments like this. We’d never be like Cameron and Ivy with sharp, witty banter because it would make my brain hurt to keep that up all the time, and we weren’t Harlow and Ian with an entire lifetime of shared memories. We were somewhere in the middle.
Always hovering between labels.
For years, we were nothing.
Now … now we were something.
In the daylight, when we were surrounded by people—friends or family or coworkers, it didn’t seem to matter—it was so much easier to keep this compartmentalized. Keep him compartmentalized.
In his neat, tidy little box where my sanity demanded he stay.
Jax pulled the big plastic kit from the drawer and motioned me toward the sink. “Come here.”
The quietly spoken command was an awful lot like he yanked on an invisible string tied around my spine. My steps were quiet as I joined him by the counter and presented my hand. The skin along the meat of my palm was scraped, red, and angry but not actively bleeding.
Jax motioned for me to come closer with his chin, and I did, angling my hand over the sink while he flipped open the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. The cold liquid on my skin had me sucking in a breath, and it bubbled immediately, washing out all the dirt and grime.
I bit down on my bottom lip when he added more. My shoulder brushed against the warm wall of his chest as he bent his head over my hand. He didn’t touch me. Hadn’t touched me since we came back into the house, and it felt intentional, with his hand hovering just beneath mine, like he’d step in if necessary.
Instead of staring at the hard line of his jaw or the gentle way he cleaned my hand, I kept my gaze on my injured palm.
Jax set the bottle down and snagged a clean piece of paper towel, gently dabbing at the leftover white bubbles on my scrape until it was dry. For a moment, he paused, staring down at my hand like he was trying to make a decision. His chest expanded on a deep breath, and he slid his fingers underneath the back of my hand.
The tips of his fingers were rough with callouses, a detail I’d chained up somewhere in the back of my mind. Goose bumps prickled along my forearms, and I prayed he didn’t notice. Jax brought my hand up to his mouth, blowing softly on my skin, and my skin went warm, my stomach weightless.
Even when he stopped, Jax didn’t drop my hand, and I could hear my pulse roaring in my ears. Slowly, he lowered it again, removing his hand from underneath mine.
My fingers tingled after he did.
“Sit,” he said quietly.
With a hammering heart, I listened.
Jax pulled another chair so that he was facing mine, sliding closer after he set down a bandage and the nude-colored athletic wrap. The air was thick and tense when he moved my arm, settling it onto the table so that he could maneuver it easily. Adding a small dob of antibiotic gel to the bandage, he smoothed it over my skin with deft movements, and if I hadn’t been studying his face so closely, I might have missed it.
