Chapter 8: Morning After

Chapter 8

Morning After

Jax woke alone.

The sheets on Ronan’s side were cold. No arm across his waist. No steady breathing against his neck. Just the faint echo of pine and smoke clinging to the pillow and the dull, satisfied ache between his legs.

For a second relief flooded him—then irritation chased it right out.

He dragged himself upright. Body protested every movement: thighs sticky, gland tender, muscles sore in ways that reminded him exactly how many times Ronan had pushed him over the edge last night. He hated how good it felt. Hated that his first instinct wasn’t to shower it all off and pretend it never happened.

He found Ronan in the kitchen.

Fully dressed—jeans, dark sweater, coat already on like he was halfway out the door. Leaning against the counter with one of Jax’s chipped mugs in his hand, staring out the window at the gray morning light. The coffee maker gurgled behind him.

Ronan didn’t turn right away.

Jax stopped in the doorway. Crossed his arms. Felt exposed even though he’d pulled on boxers and a loose tee.

“You’re still here,” Jax said. Voice rough from sleep and everything else.

Ronan finally looked over. No smile. No softness. Just steady gray eyes and a jaw set like he was bracing for a fight.

“Didn’t want to leave you crashing alone. Aftershocks can hit hard the first few days.”

Jax snorted. “I’m not gonna shatter. You can go.”

Ronan set the mug down. Slow. Deliberate.

“I will.” He pushed off the counter. “Soon as you tell me you’re actually okay.”

“I’m fine.”

Lie. His legs still trembled when he shifted weight. The gland on his neck throbbed every time Ronan got too close. And deep inside, where the knot had locked them together for hours, there was an empty ache that wanted more.

Ronan studied him for a long second. Then nodded once—like he’d expected the lie.

“Fine.” He moved toward the door. Coat rustled. Boots already laced.

Jax’s gland pulsed—sharp, needy. A low whine slipped out before he could stop it.

Ronan froze mid-step. Turned back slowly.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence stretched. Thick. Uncomfortable.

Jax broke first.

“Wait.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Jax dragged a hand through his hair. “Because… fuck. I don’t know. Because if you walk out right now my body’s gonna freak out again and I’m not doing another night on the bathroom floor.”

Ronan exhaled through his nose. Looked away for a second—jaw working.

“This doesn’t change anything on the ice,” Jax added quickly. “We’re still on opposite teams. You’re still the guy who hit me into this mess. I’m still the guy who hates your guts on principle.”

Ronan’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More like grim acknowledgment.

“I know.”

Another beat.

Ronan stepped closer—not touching, just closing the distance enough that Jax could feel the warmth rolling off him again.

“I’m not asking for forever,” Ronan said quietly. “Or even for today to mean more than it does. But I’m not gonna leave you mid-crash if I can help it. That’s not how this works.”

Jax’s laugh was bitter. “How what works? You knotting me because biology says so?”

Ronan didn’t flinch. “Yeah. That.”

Jax looked away. Stared at the coffee maker like it had answers.

Ronan waited. Didn’t push.

Finally Jax muttered, “Stay until the aftershocks pass. Then we figure out how to pretend this never happened when we’re back on the ice.”

Ronan nodded once. “Deal.”

He shrugged off his coat. Hung it on the back of a chair. Rolled up his sleeves like he was settling in for a shift.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Jax hesitated. Then nodded.

Ronan poured a second mug. Black. No sugar. Exactly how Jax took it.

They drank in silence.

Not comfortable. Not cozy.

Just two guys from opposing teams who’d fucked each other senseless less than twelve hours ago, trying not to look too hard at what came next.

Jax’s phone buzzed on the counter.

Coach Ramirez.

He glanced at the screen.

Ramirez: League office. Noon. Medical clearance and Kane’s suspension hearing. Both of you. Don’t be late.

Jax swore under his breath.

Ronan read over his shoulder. Face went blank—captain mask sliding back on.

“They’re not wasting time,” Ronan said.

“Yeah.” Jax set the mug down hard. “Guess playtime’s over.”

Ronan picked up his coat again. “I’ll drive.”

Jax snorted. “I don’t need a chauffeur.”

“You’re still shaking.” Ronan’s voice was flat. Factual. “And if we show up separately they’ll smell something off. Better if we arrive together. Control the narrative.”

Jax opened his mouth to argue.

His gland throbbed again—sharp reminder that his body still wanted Ronan close.

He closed his mouth.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But you’re not touching the wheel of my car.”

Ronan’s smile was small. Sharp.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They finished the coffee in tense silence.

Then Jax went to shower—alone.

Ronan waited in the living room.

Neither of them said another word until they were in the elevator, shoulders almost brushing, the scent of last night still clinging to both of them like evidence.

The doors opened to the lobby.

Jax stepped out first.

Ronan followed.

And just like that, they were back in the real world—two rivals with a secret that could burn everything down.