Page 12 of My Fixation

“Black coffee.”

“Anything to eat?”

I glance down at the menu in front of me, at the sticky surface and the stains on the table, and lose any remaining interest in eating anything from here.

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

She takes the menus and walks away. The second she’s gone, the space between us shifts again, the silence settling back in heavier than before.

“I asked you why,” I press, my voice steady but edged now, the patience I was holding onto slipping just enough to show. He lifts his eyes to mine this time, no hesitation, no attempt to avoid it.

“It’s complicated,” he says, like that should be enough. “Besides, why does it matter to you?” There’s something guarded in his expression now, something closed off.

“I appreciate what you did for me,” he continues, his tone flattening out, “so just tell me what your kindness is going to cost me so you can go.”

That lands harder than it should. His gaze flicks over me then, quick but sharp, taking in everything before settling back on my face.

“I can see it all over you,” he adds. “You’re not used to eating in places like this, are you?”

I don’t react right away. I let the silence sit for a second before answering.

“No,” I say simply. “I’m not.” I hold his gaze, not letting him deflect, not letting him steer this somewhere easier.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I continue, my voice quieter but more deliberate. “Other than answers.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “And if I’m not willing to answer you, then what?” he asks.

There’s a challenge in it now. A line is being drawn. I lean back just slightly, studying him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s bracing without even realizing it.

“Then I’ll find the answers somewhere else,” I say, just as calm. “But I’d rather hear them from you.” I let that sit between us for a moment before adding, “Because whatever you’re in, it’s bigger than just Henry.”

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table before dragging his hands slowly over his face, like he’s trying to wipe away the conversation, along with whatever else is weighing on him.

“Look, it’s none of your business,” he says, his voice rougher now, harder at the edges. “I got mixed up with the wrong person over a misunderstanding, and now I’m fighting because I have to.”

“Who?”

The question leaves me immediately, sharper than before, because that part matters more than anything else he’s said. He shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, shutting it down just as quickly. “I’m doing what I’ve got to do. Thanks for tonight, but that’s all the answers I have for you.”

Before I can respond, the waitress cuts back in.

“Here ya go.”

She sets my coffee down in front of me and his soda in front of him, the glass clinking lightly against the table.

“I’ll be right back with your burger.”

She walks away again, leaving the two of us in that same tight silence. I don’t touch the coffee. It just sits there, steam curling up in thin wisps that disappear into the air between us. Jaxon doesn’t hesitate. He picks up his drink and takes a long pull, his throat working as he swallows, the movement drawing my attention in a way that’s immediate.

He’s a damn good-looking man. He’s big but graceful, strength built into every line of him. His olive-toned skin is marked by bruises that only make him look more dangerous. Full lips that don’t soften the edge of his face, and his eyes—those eyes. They’re what stuck the first time I saw him. But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just how he looked. It was the way he carried himself. That quiet, defeated aura that doesn’t match the rest of him. That’s what kept me watching. And not just at the fights. The problem is that even after months of watching him, I still don’t have any real answers. I’ve seen the pattern. Work. Home. Repeat.

That’s it. No nights out. No friends stopping by. No signs of anything resembling a life outside of routine. He doesn’t even spend time with the guys he works with once the job is done. As soon as the shift ends, he disappears back into his own space like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It doesn’t add up. A man like him should have something. Someone. But there’s nothing. Just empty routines and closed doors. That bothers me more than anything else.

He watches the waitress set his plate down in front of him, his attention shifting instantly to the food, as if the conversation we were just having never happened. He picks up the burger without hesitation and takes a large bite, and I find myself noticing the small things without meaning to. He chews with his mouth closed. At least there’s that. But he still doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Hell, he won’t even lift his eyes from the plate.