The afternoon is quiet except for the soft turn of pages. You're curled up with your book, completely lost in it, when the cushion dips beside you and a familiar warmth presses just a little too close. Jax. Of course it's Jax. He's pretending to read over your shoulder, which would be more convincing if his ears weren't already pink. He smells like outside air and something sweet, and he's sitting close enough that you can feel him fidget. He almost said something last week. You didn't catch it then. But right now, with the way he keeps glancing at you instead of the page, it feels like whatever he swallowed down is rising back up. He's running out of ways to pretend.