Chapter Eighteen: Stay

The room hummed with quiet after that. I went back to rummaging through the box, but my hands weren't steady anymore. Every time I brushed past him, every time our arms touched, it lingered longer than it should have. The air between us was thick, charged, like static before a storm, impossible to ignore.

At one point, I pulled out an old set of cufflinks and held them up, holding them higher than I needed to just so he'd have an excuse to come closer. "Remember these?"

He huffed a laugh, stepping toward me. His hand reached out, fingers grazing mine as he took them, warm and calloused. He turned them in his palm like he was weighing something far heavier than cheap silver. "Yeah. Your dad wore them every time he wanted to impress somebody. Swore they were lucky."

"They weren't," I said, grinning despite the tightness in my chest.

Jax smirked, looking down at them for another second before glancing up at me. "No. But he believed they were. That's what mattered."

When he handed them back, his fingers lingered on mine for a beat too long. Neither of us moved to pull away. I felt the thrum of my pulse all the way down my wrist, loud in my ears.

The silence pressed in again, thicker now, wrapping around the edges of the room. My heart was hammering so hard I swore he could hear it.

I cleared my throat, desperate to cut the tension before it crushed me. "You thirsty?"

He arched a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth. "More whiskey?"

"Maybe."

He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling out of him as he stepped closer. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. "You don't need whiskey, Trouble."

The way he said it—low, steady, certain—stole the breath from my lungs.

I tried to cover it with a smirk of my own, like it hadn't just rattled me to my core. "Easy for you to say. You've had years of practice."

His lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. "Practice?"

"Keeping a straight face. Acting like nothing gets to you." I gestured at him with the cufflinks still in my hand. "That's your specialty."

That earned me a soft laugh, his head shaking slowly. "Darlin', if you think nothing gets to me, you haven't been paying attention."

The words landed heavier than I expected. My grin faltered, and I felt my throat tighten. He wasn't teasing. Not really.

I tried to lighten it anyway. "So what does get to you then?"

"You," he said, simple as breathing.

It hit me so hard I forgot how to move. My pulse was a war drum in my chest.

For a long moment, we just stood there, the hum of the house filling the space between us. The record player still sat quiet on the counter, a thin line of dust catching the lamplight. Somewhere outside a truck rumbled past, but even that felt far away, muted.

His hand lifted, slow, almost hesitant, like he was giving me a chance to stop him. His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from my face, tucking it gently behind my ear.

My chest tightened, and my breath hitched.

"You're staring," I whispered, half teasing, half desperate to make it feel lighter.

"You started it," he shot back, his mouth curving.

"Did not."

"Did too," he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer.

The grin died on my lips when his thumb brushed against my cheekbone, light as smoke. My whole body went still. He leaned in just enough for me to feel his breath warm against my skin.

And then he stopped.

Blue eyes locked on mine, his jaw tense, his whole body stilled like he was balancing on the edge of something dangerous.

"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

The air between us was electric, every nerve in my body sparking with the pull of him.

"Jax..." I whispered, his name slipping out like an ache, not a warning.

His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, steady, certain. My pulse skipped as his thumb pressed lightly at the base of my hairline. He leaned closer, close enough that our foreheads almost touched, close enough that my lips parted on instinct.

I felt the heat of him, the way his body radiated something sharp and steady all at once. His other hand hovered near my hip but didn't touch, not yet, like he was drawing a line only he could see.

"Why are you hesitating?" I asked, voice low, almost a challenge.

His mouth curved faintly. "Because once I start, Trouble, I'm not sure I can stop."

The words hollowed me out and filled me all at once. My knees felt weak, and I hated that he knew it.

"Maybe I don't want you to stop," I whispered back.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, just for a second, before snapping back to my eyes. "Careful," he said, voice rougher now.

We stood like that, balanced on the knife-edge of something we'd both been dodging all night. The silence stretched, heavy, waiting, daring one of us to break it.

But neither of us did. Not yet.

And that's where we stayed—on the edge, close enough to feel the heat, close enough to taste what might come next, balanced between the past and whatever the hell came after.