Chapter 92
Addy squeals, clutching her chest like I just handed her a puppy. “Xan’s in his first actual relationship.”
“Stop,” I warn, but they’re not listening.
Layla fans her eyes like she’s tearing up. “Our little commitment-phobe’s all grown up.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with the faintest smile. Then Addy drops the act, her grin softening. “Jokes aside, I'm rooting for you. Both of you.”
“Yeah,” Layla nods, sincerity cutting through the sass for once. “ Me too, seriously.”
That lands more than I want to admit. I don’t say thanks, but it must show in the way I smile faintly at them, right before they steal the tiramisu I’ve been guarding.
Layla pops the lid with a triumphant grin. “Mine now.”
Addy’s already reaching for a spoon. I lean back in my chair. But then Layla freezes mid-bite, eyes widening as she stares down at the dessert. Slowly, she looks up at me, her expression dawning with suspicion. “Wait a second. The food you’ve been carrying in lately…” She points the spoon at me, accusing. “You lied about making it, didn’t you?”
Addy gasps, scandalized. “No way. Don’t tell me...was it Jax?”
I give the smallest nod.
Their reaction is instant. Both of them throw their heads back dramatically, like I just revealed a plot twist in their favorite TV show.
“Oh my God,” Addy crows. “He cooks for you? Actual homemade food?”
Layla shakes her head, impressed. “That’s…damn. Okay. We officially approve.”
“Wholeheartedly,” Addy adds, shoving another spoonful of tiramisu in her mouth. “In fact, can we put in requests? Like...menu recommendations for lunch? I’ve been craving pasta.”
I just smile and shake my head, watching them devour my dessert, warmth settling somewhere deep in my chest.
The six-hour tattoo ends up dragging well past that. Not because the design was complicated, I’d mapped it out clean, but because halfway through, the guy decided he wanted to tweak some elements. Then add in the fact that his pain tolerance isn’t exactly ironclad… yeah, it made for a long, stop-and-start ride. Every time I hit a sensitive spot, he jerks, groans, clenches his fists. The works. Which, for the record, doesn’t make the needle glide any easier.
I’d planned on calling Jax once I was thirty minutes from done, give him a heads-up, but I don’t even get the chance. He appears when I'm still not close to being done.
The door opens and I glance up, my chest tightens instantly. He walks in, doesn’t say a damn word, just drags a chair over and drops it beside my station. The scrape of the legs on the floor rings louder in my ears than my machine.
And then he sits....And watches.
I pretend it’s nothing, but there’s something about knowing and feeling his eyes on me as I work. Like a current under my skin. Nervousness, excitement, both tangled tight in my gut.
The tattoo’s a full-on Japanese-inspired piece, climbing from hip to thigh...crashing waves, dark water curling into a fierce koi, threads of smoke weaving around it. Clean, bold and traditional. It’s gorgeous, but yeah, it’s in a brutal spot. My client groans through clenched teeth, his knuckles white around the edge of the chair.
“Hey,” I murmur over the buzz, my voice steady but low, “you’re doing great. Just a little longer, alright? Breathe through it.”
He nods, breath shaky, sweat dampening his temple.
Less than twenty minutes after he arrives, Jax’s phone goes off. The sound cuts straight through the buzz of my machine. I glance sideways just as he pulls it from his pocket, and the look on his face makes my stomach twist... annoyed and frustrated. He stands up without a word and heads outside to take it.
I keep my machine moving, but I’m thinking the whole time. Why step out? I know it's probably too loud in here, sure. But that looked like more than noise motivating him. Maybe whatever that call is isn’t something he wants me to overhear....
He comes back a few minutes later, face reset, expression unreadable. He sits back down like nothing happened and doesn’t say a word. My hand doesn’t falter, but my head? Yeah, it spins.
At some point, Zig wanders in, heading for his office. He stops mid-stride when he spots Jax parked there. “Client?” he asks, eyebrow up as he checks the time.
Before Jax can grunt something dismissive, I answer, “He’s waiting for me.”
“Oh.” Zig’s tone dips, like he just got the hint, and it’s a knowing oh. His eyes flick between us. Then he smiles and nods subtly, turning to Jax. “Nice to meet you.”
I brace for the frost. For Jax’s usual monosyllabic brush-off. But instead, he surprises me.
“Yeah. You too,” he says, voice even.
Zig glances out front. “That your bike?”
“Yeah,” Jax confirms.
“It's a beauty.”
And just like that, they’re talking bikes. Short, but easy. I listen in, trying not to look like I’m invested. But inside, I can’t help the twitch of something stupidly warm in my chest.
After almost two more hours of groans, clenched teeth, and careful shading, I finally sit back and peel my gloves off. My shoulders ache, my wrist’s stiff, but the piece is definitely worth it. My client looks wrecked but also stunned.
“There we go,” I say, wiping the last bit of ink and blood. “Done.”
The guy exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire session. “Holy fuck. That was torture.”
I laugh, standing and stretching. “Go ahead, check it in the mirror.”
He limps over, admiration replacing pain as he catches sight of his new ink. That reaction never gets old.
And behind me, Jax is still there still watching. My pulse is just as unsteady now as when he first walked in.
By the time my client finally leaves, the shop feels too quiet. I clean my station in that automatic rhythm my body knows by heart....wipe down, break down, wrap up. My hands are busy, but my head’s elsewhere, humming with Jax’s silent weight. He hasn’t moved since he sat down, like he was carved there.
When I’m done, I sit on the edge of my desk, bones aching in ways I don’t want to admit out loud. That’s when he stands. Each step closing the distance until he’s right in front of me. Close enough that I don’t have to think twice before leaning forward and resting my head against his chest.
"Tired?" He asks.
The sound that slips out of me is a sigh but feels more like surrender. “I’m wrecked,” I murmur, though it comes out softer, heavier...like the weight of the day is dragging each syllable.
His hand finds my shoulders, fingers digging in, thumb pressing into the knots like he owns every tense inch of me. I tilt my head back, eyes falling shut as the tension unspools, and the sound I make borders indecent.