Page 36 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

Jax

I woke to absence before my eyes even opened.

The bed was cold—long-empty cold, not minutes-ago cool.

I shifted slightly, already knowing what I wouldn’t find: no body beside mine, no breath at my shoulder, no lingering warmth.

Just the fading imprint of her legs wrapped around my waist, her mouth at my throat, her pulse chasing mine like we were the only two people left alive.

Now, there was only silence. The sheets had been straightened, not neatly, but with purpose.

She hadn’t fled, but made it clear this wasn’t permanent.

No panic. No slammed door. Just a clean exit, surgical and sharp.

I sat up, elbows braced on my knees, hands loose between them, staring at the hardwood like it might offer answers.

A few strands of her hair still clung to the pillow beside mine.

My breathing felt too even to be honest. Last night had happened.

I wasn’t imagining her fingers clutching my chest, the crack in her voice when she said my name, the look in her eyes when all her defenses dropped.

Stella didn’t fake softness. If she gave it, it was real, offered seconds before she could stop herself.

So why the hell was she gone?

I wasn’t spiraling yet, but my brain was already in pattern-recognition mode.

I ran through the variables like a threat assessment: had I said something in my sleep?

Held her too tight? Crossed some invisible line she hadn’t drawn out loud?

Maybe it had felt too raw, too uncontainable, and she’d done what people do when they’re scared, shoved it back in the box and walked away.

I didn’t know. And not knowing was what started the crack.

Eventually, I stood. Not because I wanted to, but because staying in that bed with her ghost tangled in the sheets felt like torture.

I moved deliberately, every stretch and breath calibrated like fieldwork.

No muttering. No slamming drawers. Just quiet containment.

Discipline was default. Control was my oxygen.

I didn’t bleed emotion—I categorized it.

But this wasn’t something I could shelf. It wasn’t manageable.

Because it wasn’t just desire anymore. I’d already started building her into the structure of my life without even realizing it, and now all I had was an echo.

My shirt was still draped over the chair.

But her hoodie—borrowed, rumpled, warm the night before—was gone.

That told me everything. This wasn’t a trip to the kitchen.

She didn’t want me waking up to anything familiar.

She didn’t want to leave a trace. She wanted to erase one.

And the worst part? I understood it. Didn’t mean I liked it. But I got it.

Some people run from intimacy because it’s foreign.

Others because it’s too familiar. I didn’t know yet which one Stella was, but I knew how she’d looked at me last night.

Like I wasn’t just the man paid to keep her alive, but someone she chose to touch.

Someone she trusted, if only for a moment. And now she was gone.

I ran a hand down my face, dragging fingers through my hair before heading for the door.

I wasn’t going to chase her. But I wasn’t going to lie to myself either.

I felt her absence like something carved into bone.

And the thing about me? I didn’t need drama.

I didn’t even need closure. But I did need the truth.

And she was hiding it like it was classified.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, voices were already moving in soft hums beneath the clink of mugs. Warm light from the windows softened the tension, but I saw her immediately—spine straight, shoulders high, back turned. Not a flicker of acknowledgment.

She didn’t glance at me. Not once. Which meant this wasn’t an oversight. It was intentional.

Every movement she made was a performance: the steady tilt of her mug, the ease of her lean against the counter, the absence of hesitation. It wasn’t the shadow of regret. It was the choreography of indifference.

And that was its own kind of language. One I understood too well.

I didn’t speak. Just stepped farther into the room, scanning the scene.

Maddy leaned against the counter in an oversized sweater, her hair a wild halo around her face.

Sully crouched in front of the open fridge, muttering about someone stealing the last of the almond milk.

Bellamy perched on a stool by the sink, all sharp eyes and sharper instincts, tracking every motion like she was logging testimony in real time.

Carrick and Niko were nowhere in sight, but it didn’t matter.

The atmosphere had already crystallized.

“Morning,” I said, quiet and even, not a greeting so much as a probe, but Stella didn’t answer or turn or even blink in my direction.

Maddy froze mid-slurp, spoon halted halfway.

Sully peeked from behind the fridge with a low, “Uh-oh,” while Bellamy’s look was sharp enough to close a case.

“Okay, so we’re doing this,” she muttered into her mug.

Sully leaned toward Maddy and whispered, “Did they bang last night, or did someone die? Blink twice for emotional trauma.” Maddy didn’t blink.

Just watched the tension stretch between us, her mouth pulled tight like she couldn’t decide whether to intervene or stay out of it.

I walked past them without a word, poured half a mug of coffee I didn’t want, my hands steady, my face blank, but inside, every nerve was drawn tight.

This wasn’t silence. It was a message. When someone chooses not to speak, it isn’t just quiet; it’s rejection dressed as indifference.

She wasn’t avoiding me. She was sending a warning.

And she did it perfectly, without a word.

I leaned against the counter, sipping coffee that tasted like ash. The ceramic was warm against my hands, just like her skin had been last night. I hadn’t expected fireworks or a confession, but I thought I might get a glance. A flicker. Something that said she remembered too.

Instead, she rinsed her mug, moved past me without hesitation, without touch, without even a glance. Just motion—clean, silent, surgical. But I felt the cut as she left the room.

“Damn,” Sully muttered as the door swung shut. “And I thought I was the dramatic one.”

Maddy didn’t speak, but her head tilted slowly toward me like she was trying to see through my skin. I kept my eyes on the door, and let the silence stretch.

“Is she okay?” Bellamy asked, voice casual, gaze sharp.

“Yes,” I lied. “She’s just… focused.”

Maddy hummed, unconvinced. “Focused on what? Winning Best Actress in a Role Where She Pretends You Don’t Exist?”

Sully winced. “Ouch.”

I didn’t answer, because Maddy was right, and I didn’t have a clue why. Without another word, I stood and went after her.

Stella walked ahead of me with the kind of posture that passed for neutral unless you knew what to look for.

Shoulders square, spine too straight, arms loose but too still.

I saw it. The micro-signals of someone determined not to be seen.

The way her steps never wavered from the center of the hallway.

The way she didn’t glance back or shift even once.

Like I hadn’t kissed her throat or held her through the sound of her own unraveling.

Like my hands hadn’t memorized every line of her body or her voice hadn’t broken on my name.

I followed at a deliberate distance, far enough not to crowd her, close enough I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. I didn’t raise my voice or call her back. I just said it once, low and steady, a thread between us. “Stella.”

She didn’t turn. Didn’t pause. Just reached her door, opened it with that same deliberate grace, and shut it behind her with a softness that echoed louder than a slam. That was the tell—not volume, but certainty. That door didn’t close in anger. It closed like a statement.

I stood there another moment, pressing my palm to the wood of her door, not urgent, but intentional.

It was smooth and cool, unmoved by contact.

I imagined her on the other side, but the quiet didn’t feel shared.

It felt sealed. Like she’d vacuum-packed herself inside whatever kept her safe.

I wondered if she was leaning against the other side, listening.

Or if she’d already left mentally—already halfway to a place I wasn’t invited to follow.

“If you need space,” I said, voice steady, cadence even, “I’ll give it.

” I waited. One breath. Then another. No reply.

No shift of weight across the floor. Just stillness.

“But don’t pretend last night didn’t happen.

” I didn’t want promises, just clarity. I needed to believe the version of her who kissed me like she meant it wasn’t some glitch in the dark.

Still nothing. No sound. No movement. Her silence wasn’t passive. It was intentional. She wasn’t hiding. She was extracting. Removing herself from the space we shared with such precision, it almost impressed me. If it didn’t already ache beneath my ribs, it might’ve.

Eventually, I dropped my hand and stepped back.

The hallway felt longer on the return. I didn’t look back.

Just walked. Each step controlled, like I was exiting a scene I’d already cataloged.

She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t cried. She’d just vanished without moving.

And that was the part that cut deepest. It wasn’t rejection.

It was erasure. No matter how I ran the math, the answer didn’t change: I wasn’t welcome in her world anymore.