Page 17

17

MADISON

J axon leads me downstairs, his grip warm and steady around my wrist, and my stomach grumbles loud enough to make him glance back at me with a smirk.

"Damn, you weren't kidding. You're about five minutes from starving."

I groan, dramatically letting my head fall back.

"If I pass out, it's on you. You should've fed me before shoving algebra down my throat."

He chuckles, shaking his head as he guides me into the kitchen.

The house is unusually quiet for a place packed with football players, though I spot a few protein shakers on the counter—proof at least some of them have been through here recently.

Jaxon walks straight to the fridge, pulling it open.

"Alright, what are you in the mood for?"

I settle onto one of the barstools, watching him as I lean my elbows on the counter.

The way he moves with such easy confidence makes something flutter in my chest. I try to ignore it.

"You're actually letting me pick?"

He throws me a look over his shoulder. "I'm feeding you, aren't I?"

I hum in thought, taking a moment to appreciate how the sunlight filtering through the kitchen windows catches the gold flecks in his brown eyes. It's the little things about him I've always noticed but tried so hard to ignore.

"Okay, what's your specialty, chef?"

His lips twitch, but he doesn't look away from the fridge. "That's not how this works. You tell me what you want, and I make it happen."

I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes playfully. "Fine. Chicken and dumplings."

He pauses, then turns, one of his dark brows raised. "That's oddly specific."

I shrug. "It's what your mom used to make for us as kids. I haven't had it in forever."

For a second, his expression shifts to something softer, more nostalgic. "Yeah. She'd make enough to feed a damn army."

“Which worked, since you always had extra teammates walk in the door with us.” I smile, remembering how his mom used to ladle out heaping bowls for us, her kitchen always warm, always welcoming. I spent just as much time at the Montgomery house growing up as I did my own. His mom was like a second mother to me, always making sure I ate enough, always checking in when things at home got bad.

And then, life happened. Shit happened.

And I pulled away.

Jaxon clears his throat and grabs ingredients from the fridge, the muscles in his arms flexing—not that I notice. "Alright, chicken and dumplings it is."

I blink, surprised he's serious. "Wait, you actually know how to make it?"

He gives me a dry look. "I was raised in the Montgomery household, Mads. Mom didn't let me leave for college without knowing how to take care of myself. It might not have everything she put in it, but we’ve got the basics."

I grin, watching as he starts cutting up some chicken. His hands move with practiced precision, and there's something undeniably attractive about a man who knows his way around a kitchen. "She'd be proud."

He smirks, one of his dimples popping through. "She'd be prouder if I actually brought you home for dinner like she's been begging me to."

My stomach flips. "Wait—what?"

Jaxon keeps chopping, completely unfazed. "Yeah. She won't stop asking about you, wants me to bring you over for Sunday dinner."

I gape at him. "You told her we've been hanging out?"

His smirk deepens. "Of course. She asks about my life, and you're in it again, so…" He shrugs like it's nothing, like he doesn't realize the way my chest just squeezed tight.

I swallow, trying to play it cool. "And what did you say?"

Jaxon pauses, looking up at me, his hazel eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Told her I'd ask you."

My throat goes dry. Because this—his mom, their home, him —isn't just some random family dinner invite. This is something that reminds me of the past, of all the things I had before everything changed.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, glancing down at the counter before starting to tear at my nails. "I—I don't know, Jax."

I can feel his gaze on me for a second before he nods, turning back to the stove. "Just think about it."

I don't answer, because I don't know how.

Instead, I watch him cook, mesmerized by the way he moves around the kitchen so effortlessly. There's something intimate about being here with him like this, watching him prepare food just for me. That he remembers a dish from our childhood, that he's willing to take the time to make it—it makes my heart ache in the best possible way. It takes me back to another time he took care of me when I caught the worst cold known to mankind our junior year.

Everything hurts. My throat, my head, my pride. I’ve been wearing the same hoodie for two days, and my nose is so red, I could guide Santa’s sleigh.

There’s a knock at the door, but I don’t move. It’s probably my dad with more medicine I won’t take.

But then, I hear his voice.

“You look like death.”

I groan and pull the blanket over my head. “Go away.”

Of course he doesn’t. Jaxon Montgomery has never once listened when I told him to leave me alone, especially when I actually wanted him to stay.

He sets something on my nightstand, and I catch the smell before I open my eyes—chicken noodle. Of course.

“Chicken noodle, extra salt—because I know how dramatic you get when you’re sick,” he says, way too smug.

I peek out from under the blanket, and yep—there he is, smirking, hair still messy from practice, wearing that hoodie I always pretend not to stare at. He looks annoyingly perfect. I probably have dried snot on my face.

“You’re the worst,” I rasp.

He just grins, like I said something sweet. “You say that now, but wait till the Tylenol kicks in and the soup changes your life.”

I try to sit up, but everything aches. He tosses me a pillow before I even ask. Gently, like he’s done this a hundred times.

He pulls out a Gatorade and a box of tissues, setting them down like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just show up here without asking and bring me everything I need.

My chest does this weird fluttery thing I immediately try to ignore.

“You being sick is kind of peaceful, not gonna lie,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You’ve been quiet for a full two minutes. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

I flip him off without lifting my head. He laughs, and I hate how much I love the sound.

Then, his voice softens.

“If you ever actually lost your voice for real…I’d miss it.”

I freeze .

It’s barely more than a whisper, but it hits me like a punch to the gut. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s real—and I don’t think he even meant to say it out loud.

I look at him, and he looks away, like maybe he’s scared I’ll see something he’s not ready to explain.

I want to ask what he means. I want to ask why my stupid heart won’t stop racing when he says stuff like that.

But instead, I nudge his leg with my foot and pretend I’m too tired to talk.

"She's not mad at me?" I finally say, escaping the memory as I watch him add spices to the broth and stir in the chicken. The aroma fills the kitchen, warm and comforting, reminding me of simpler times.

"Why would she be mad? She knows we haven't talked much since college started, but she could never hate you. You're like the daughter she never had." He chuckles, turning to look back at me.

I stare down at the countertop, toying with my already too-short nails, trying my best not to start tearing at them. His eyes drop to my hands, and he walks over, pulling them apart.

The gentle way he touches me, the casual intimacy of it, sends a shiver up my spine. His hands are warm and calloused, but they’re oh so gentle as they envelop mine.

"Mads, hey." He brings his face down so we're eye level, and I let myself get lost in their depths. "They both love you, you know that. Nothing you do could ever change that either. Same with me."

My breath catches. My heart stumbles. "You love me?"

The words slip out before I can stop them, barely above a whisper, but Jaxon hears them. His hands still, his eyes staying locked on mine. There's no hesitation, no shift in his expression, just a simple, undeniable truth when he answers.

"Of course, I do. You're my best friend. Always have been, always will be."

The knot in my chest tightens, a mix of emotions clawing their way up my throat. His words should settle me, should feel familiar. He's always been there, always had my back, always been Jaxon.

But something about the way he says it, the way his voice is so steady, so sure—something about it rattles me.

I swallow hard, forcing a nod as he goes back to cooking like he didn't just knock the air from my lungs.

I focus on the rhythmic motion of his hands, the way he moves around the kitchen so effortlessly, the way he hums under his breath like this is second nature for him. Nothing about this moment seems as Earth-shattering for him as it is for me.

And maybe it's not.

Maybe this is just Jaxon being Jaxon.

So, I shove the weird, twisty feeling down deep and watch him finish cooking. My breath catches, but I force a small smile, tugging at the sleeves of my sweatshirt. "I haven't seen her in a long time."

He nods, sprinkling some salt into the pot. "You know she'd love to see you. Dad too."

But they didn’t want you putting their son’s future in jeopardy.

I clear my throat, pushing past the sudden heaviness. "So…the draft. What teams are looking at you?"

Jaxon stirs the pot, his focus on the food as he answers. "Coach has mentioned a few—New York, Philly, Baltimore, some others."

My stomach twists. "That's far."

He nods, his gaze steady when he looks up at me. "Yeah, and the schedule's gonna be insane."

I don't know why my chest tightens, but it does. I press my fingers against the counter, grounding myself. "That'll make it hard to come back home often."

I don't mean for it to sound…like that. Like something hesitant. Something uncertain.

But Jaxon hears it anyway.

His eyes lock on mine, sharp, unwavering. The air between us shifts, something heavy settling between us, unspoken but loud .

Then, he says, voice low but deliberate, "You prioritize what's important to you."

I stop breathing. My lips part, but no words come out. I try not to be offended, football has been his priority for years, so why would that change now?

The moment hangs between us, electric and charged, until the timer on his phone breaks the spell.

"Food's ready," he says softly, turning back to the stove.

I watch him ladle the chicken and dumplings into two bowls, the steam rising in delicate curls. The simple act of him cooking for me, remembering a dish from our shared past—it touches something deep inside me.

Jaxon carries both bowls into the living room, plopping onto the couch and nodding for me to follow. "Come on, let's eat before I have to head out."

I grab our drinks and settle next to him, pulling a throw blanket over my lap as he flips through the movies. Our shoulders brush, and I don't pull away. I like the contact too much.

" Fast & Furious ?" he asks, not even bothering to confirm before hitting play.

I let out a soft laugh. "Do you ever get tired of this series?"

He grins, shoveling a bite into his mouth. "Nope."

I shake my head but don't argue. The truth is, I like the familiarity of it. I like that he always picks the same comfort movies. I like that, for all the changes in our lives, some things—like this—stay the same.

We fall into an easy silence, eating as the movie plays, both of us relaxing into the couch. The warmth of the food settles in my stomach, and for the first time in days, I feel good. Safe. The chicken and dumplings are perfect—not quite as good as his mom's, but close enough to bring back a flood of memories. The fact that he made this for me, that he remembered something so specific from our childhood, makes my heart swell.

We hear them before we see them, then Carter and a couple other guys walk into the living room. I don't recognize all of them, but Carter's the first to crash onto the armrest of the couch, tossing a pillow at Jaxon, causing him to almost drop his half-empty bowl.

"Bro, you watching this again?" Carter groans, shaking his head at the screen.

Jaxon scoops another spoonful of soup and shrugs. "It's a classic."

Another guy—Logan, I think—grabs another throw pillow and chucks it at Jaxon's head. "Classic, my ass. You just wanna pretend you're Brian O'Connor."

Jaxon smirks, setting his bowl on the coffee table and stretching his arms over the back of the couch, his bicep brushing against my shoulder. That simple touch sends warmth cascading through me, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral.

"Family, man," Jaxon says, quoting the movie with exaggerated seriousness.

The whole room groans.

"That's it," Carter announces. "Someone revoke this man's movie privileges."

Jaxon just laughs, unbothered, and keeps eating.

The guys keep up the banter, making half-serious arguments as to why Tokyo Drift was either the best or worst in the franchise, and somehow, between bites of food, I start to relax.

For the first time in a while, I don't feel like I have to try. I just exist here, surrounded by these guys and their ridiculous conversations, wrapped up in the easy familiarity of Jaxon. I sneak glances at him when he's laughing with his friends, admiring the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his whole face lights up.

Eventually, the movie winds down, and so does the lazy energy of the room. One by one, the guys filter out, on their way to get ready for practice, leaving just the two of us again.

My knee brushes against his.

I freeze. For a second, I consider moving away, since there's more room now, but then—I don't.

Because I like it .

I like the way the warmth spreads through me, like the point of contact is its own little secret. I like that he doesn't shift away either, that he doesn't even acknowledge it—like it's normal for us to be pressed together like this.

Maybe it is.

Maybe I'm the only one making it weird.

I exhale softly, trying to focus on the movie, trying to ignore my heart beating just a little too fast. I can't help but marvel at how comfortable this feels—sitting beside him, sharing a blanket, our bodies connected in these small, seemingly insignificant ways.

The bowl in my hands is empty now, but the warmth inside me remains. Not just from the food, though it was delicious, but from him—from the care he took in making it, from the memories it brought back, from the way he's always taken care of me in his own way.

But the realization is already there, settling in deep.

I don't just like this.

I want more.