Chapter 6: Morning Light
Sunlight spilled across the scuffed linoleum of the Maple Street apartment, cutting through the stagnant air like a blade. I woke up on the sagging sofa, a rough woolen blanket tucked securely around my shoulders. The heavy scent of black coffee and burnt toast drifted from the tiny kitchen alcove. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and saw Jax standing by the counter. He had taken off his leather vest, wearing only a faded gray t-shirt that showed the sprawling ink across his thick forearms. He was using a pocket knife to carefully shave down the edge of a swollen cabinet door that had refused to close properly for as long as I could remember. With a sharp snap of wood against wood, the door swung smoothly and clicked shut. He tested it twice, his expression entirely focused, before turning around and noticing me watching him from the living room.
"Morning, kid," Jax said quietly, his deep voice carrying easily over the hum of the old refrigerator. He poured a cup of coffee and set it safely out of reach on the highest counter, sliding a small glass of milk toward me instead. "How did you sleep?" I climbed off the sofa, my bare feet padding softly against the floorboards, and slid onto one of the wobbly metal chairs at the tiny dinette table. "Okay," I murmured, taking a cautious sip of the cold milk. Before Jax could reply, a sharp, frantic rap sounded at the front door. Jax froze instantly, every muscle in his frame tightening into a defensive crouch as his eyes locked onto the deadbolt. A moment later, Mrs. Gable, our elderly landlord, called out from the hallway, rattling her master key in the lock. "Clara? Are you decent in there? I saw a strange bike parked downstairs and I want to know who's loitering in my building."
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Jax let out a slow, controlled breath, ran a calloused hand through his long dark hair, and stepped over to unlock the door before she could force her way in. He pulled it open just wide enough to block her view of the living room, standing broad-shouldered and imposing in the doorway. Mrs. Gable gasped, her sharp eyes darting up from his leather vest hanging over the chair to the heavy tattoos mapping his arms. "Who are you?" she demanded, clutching her worn leather purse like a shield. "I'm a friend of Clara's," Jax replied, his tone even and entirely unyielding, offering no room for argument or suspicion. Before the old woman could launch into another tirade, Clara’s bedroom door creaked open. She stood in the frame, leaning heavily against the wooden jamb, looking fragile as spun glass in her oversized flannel pajamas. Her eyes met Jax’s, and a silent understanding passed between them. "It's all right, Martha," Clara said, her voice raspy but clear enough to stop the landlord in her tracks. "He's family."
Mrs. Gable blinked in utter astonishment, looking from Clara’s pale face to Jax’s rugged exterior, then gave a sharp nod of disapproval before turning on her heel and shuffling down the hall. Jax closed the door softly, sliding the chain into place. He turned back to Clara, closing the distance between them in three long strides to steady her before she could sway. "You shouldn't be on your feet yet," he scolded gently, his voice losing its hard edge entirely as he scooped her up with practiced ease and carried her back to the rumpled bed. I watched from the doorway, realizing for the first time that the heavy, suffocating loneliness of our apartment was finally lifting. Jax walked out of the bedroom a minute later, pulled a pack of papers from his back pocket, and sat down at the table across from me. "Your mom wants to talk to us," he said softly, resting his heavy hands flat on the scarred wood. "All of us."
