Page 13 of My Fixation

The silence stretches out between us, heavy and uncomfortable, the kind that demands to be filled, and eventually I’m the one who gives in.

“I can help you.”

The words sit there for a second, hanging between us. He doesn’t react. He just takes another bite, then reaches for a handful of fries, dragging them slowly through the ketchup before eating them. Is he pretending that I’m not here? My jaw tightens slightly as I watch him, irritation flickering under the surface.

“I said I can help you,” I repeat, putting more weight behind the words this time, letting the frustration bleed through just enough that he can’t pretend he didn’t hear me.

He doesn’t rush to answer. He takes his sweet time. Finishes chewing and swallows.

“I heard you the first time,” he says, his tone calm, almost detached, “but there’s nothing you can do.” He reaches for another fry, dragging it through the ketchup before eating it, still not looking at me. “So why even discuss it?” he continues. “It’s a waste of time.”

That lands harder than it should. Because he believes it.

“I’m going to finish my meal, pay the bill, and go home,” he adds, like he’s laying out a plan that doesn’t include me at all. “Again, thank you for stepping in tonight, but to be honest with you, it’s just going to cause me more problems.”

My jaw tightens. He picks up his burger again and, in just a few bites, finishes it off like he’s used to eating fast, used to not lingering anywhere longer than necessary. Then, just like that, he leans back slightly and lifts his hand, catching the waitress’s attention.

“Check, please.”

The finality of it settles between us. If he thinks this is over, he’s dead wrong.

Chapter 9

Jaxon

Sunday afternoons are usually my favorite part of the week, the one stretch of time that actually feels like it belongs to me after everything else has been handled and checked off my list. All my errands are done, and my apartment is clean. There’s nothing left pulling at me, nothing left demanding my attention. It’s supposed to be my time.

I usually curl up on the couch with my latest knitting project or lose myself in a good romance novel, letting the quiet settle around me in a way that almost feels like peace, like for a few hours I can pretend my life is something softer than what it actually is.

Usually. But not today. Today I can’t sit still, my mind too loud, my body too wired. It’s been two days since the fight, and just like I told Conor, Mr. Savior-wannabe himself, stepping in didn’t fix anything. It made things worse.

I pick up my latest MM romance, flipping it open to where I left off, trying to sink into it the way I normally would, trying to let someone else’s story drown out my own. It has everything I’ve ever wanted.

A main character who is completely devoted, who chooses his partner every single time without hesitation, who builds a life around him instead of treating him like something disposable. He takes care of him as if he matters, like he’s worth protecting. There’s softness in it. Intimacy that isn’t rushed or taken, but given.

Time spent afterward just being together, like the connection doesn’t end the second things get quiet. It’s everything I don’t have, everything I’ve never had and probably never will.

The words start to blur after a few pages, my eyes moving over them without actually taking anything in, my mind dragging me back to the same place over and over again, no matter how hard I try to focus. The fight. Henry. Conor. That feeling of being watched.

I snap the book shut with more force than necessary and drop it beside me, scrubbing a hand over my face as the anxiety settles heavier in my chest instead of easing.

Knitting isn’t any better. I try anyway, picking it up out of habit, letting the familiar motions take over, but even that doesn’t help. The rhythm is broken by the constant loop of thoughts that won’t shut up.

Nothing is working, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is about to go very, very wrong.

I give up after a few minutes and reach for my phone, unlocking it just to stare at the screen again, at the messages. Not that I expect it to be different. Not that I think it’s magically changed since the last time I read it five minutes ago. But I check anyway. Because I can’t seem to stop myself.

Henry: You fucked up Friday

Henry: The debt belongs to you

Henry: Manny is not happy

Henry: Come to the warehouse on Wednesday 7 PM, don’t be late

I let my head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of everything presses down harder the longer I sit there. I know Conor meant well. But this is still fucked up. I should have just taken that last fight and been done with it, taken whatever came with it and moved on, because at least then it would have been over. But I remember how I felt. The way my body was already giving out on me. The way my vision kept wavering, the edges going dark told me I was closer to dropping than I wanted to admit. I wouldn’t have won. And I know I would have gotten hurt. Badly.

Still, part of me thinks that would have been easier than this. Easier than sitting here waiting, knowing I’m going to have to face Manny again, knowing there’s a cost coming, and having no idea what it’s going to be. How much is this going to cost me? My life? The thought sits there, heavy and suffocating.