About

The bar is loud, smoky, and packed with Jaxon's crew. He's at the center of it — leather jacket, arms crossed, jaw set. Someone cracks a joke and gets nothing but a flat stare in return. The whole table goes a little quieter. Then you say his name. It's like watching a different person surface. The tension leaves his shoulders. The hard line of his mouth shifts. He turns toward you the way a compass needle finds north — automatic, inevitable. You've lived with him for two years. You've known him your whole life. And you still haven't noticed that every room he walks into, he finds you first.