Page 74 of My Fixation

His eyes widen. Just slightly. Like the idea itself is foreign to him. I can practically see the argument forming behind his eyes. For the first time since I walked into the office, something in his expression cracks.

“I need to…” He swallows hard and clears his throat. The words seem to physically hurt coming out. “I need to forget.” His voice cracks. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Something inside him finally gives way. The floodgates open. “I don’t want to make any decisions.” Tears spill down his cheeks faster now. “I don’t want to think.”

My chest tightens. “Jaxon—”

“I want to feel wanted.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Cared for.” Another broken breath leaves him. “Safe.”

The last word nearly destroys me. Because it sounds like a plea. Not a demand. Not an expectation. A plea.

“Even if you have to fake it.” I brush away a tear before it can reach his jaw. “Just for a little while.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Please.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. I simply stare at him. At the man who survived foster homes. Who survived war. Who survived addiction. Who survived being exploited and used by people who should have protected him. And somehow still believes affection is something that must be earned. Like it’s something temporary. Something that can only be given out of pity.

My hands slide to either side of his face, holding him still. Making damn sure he looks at me.

“A Chroí.” The endearment comes out rough. “Nothing about this is fake.” Fresh tears gather in his eyes. I press my forehead against his. “You are wanted.” His breath hitches. “You are cared for.”

I stand and pull him to his feet. Jaxon comes willingly. His fingers immediately tighten around mine. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. I lead him from the office. He doesn’t ask where we’re going.

Tonight is about Jaxon and no one else. It’s about giving him exactly what he asked for. A chance to breathe. A chance to feel wanted. A chance to stop carrying the weight of the world for a few hours.

His shoulder brushes mine as we walk. The contact feels intentional. My grip tightens slightly. By the time tonight is over, Jaxon will never question how real this is for me.

Not again.

Chapter 37

Jaxon

When Neil started talking about himself, it wasn’t clinical at all. There were no forms, no assessments, no feeling of being evaluated. It felt more like we’d met somewhere by chance and struck up a conversation. Over coffee, or at a bar, anywhere but a therapist’s office.

He told me about his time in the Army. Not the horror stories. Just enough that I understood that he’d been there, seen things, and lost people. He carried memories that refused to stay buried. He knew what those nightmares felt like.

The realization alone took some of the tension out of my shoulders. Then he told me about his family. About going back to university as an older student. About feeling ancient surrounded by eighteen-year-olds. I actually laughed. More than once. Looking back, I think that was the moment he got me. Not because he manipulated me but because he made himself human first.

By the time he finally asked about me, I was relaxed enough that I didn’t think twice before answering. One question became another. Then another. Before I knew it, I was talking, really talking. About the foster homes. The military. Trent. The drinking. The pills.

All the things I’d spent years avoiding. Some things I’d never said out loud. A lot of it hurt. Yet Neil never looked shocked, never looked disgusted, never gave me the pitying expression I’d come to hate. He just listened. Asked questions. Made observations that were irritatingly accurate.

By the end of the session, my head felt strangely lighter. Yet the pain in my chest still sat heavy. Talking hadn’t erased anything. If anything, it had stirred everything up. Every memory I discussed seemed to drag two more to the surface. They all crowded together until I felt emotionally exhausted, raw, and exposed. More than anything, it reminded me just how alone I’d been for most of my life.

Then Conor asked me what I needed. What he could do to help. My answer surprised even me. A week ago, I never would have said it. Never would have admitted it. Yet somehow, standing in front of him, the truth had simply fallen out. I didn’t want to think anymore. I didn’t want to make decisions. I wanted someone else to carry the weight for a little while.

Conor leads me upstairs. Neither of us speaks. His hand remains firmly wrapped around mine. When he pushes open the door to his bedroom, he doesn’t stop there. Instead, he guides me into the massive en suite bathroom.

My eyes immediately land on the bathtub. It’s enormous. Large enough to comfortably fit several people. Sunlight streams through the frosted windows, reflecting off the marble surfaces and polished fixtures. The entire room looks like something from a luxury resort.

“Conor.”

He squeezes my hand gently. “Trust me.”

The words settle something restless inside me. He begins filling the tub. Hot water pours from the faucet while steam slowly rises into the air. The scent of eucalyptus drifts through the room a few moments later. Calming. Clean. Peaceful.

Conor turns back toward me. His eyes move over my face. Not assessing. Not judging. Simply looking. No one has ever looked at me and decided that my comfort mattered.

His hands move to the hem of my shirt.