I walked into the recovery room at exactly 9:00, heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted out. The door was already ajar, and when I pushed it open, the air felt thicker—dimmer lights, soft mats covering most of the floor, full-length mirrors on three walls so there was nowhere to hide. A single lock clicked behind me when Jax turned the deadbolt. The sound made my stomach flip.

He was waiting, leaning against the wall in black compression shorts and a sleeveless hoodie unzipped halfway down his chest. Sweat already gleamed on his collarbones. His eyes dragged over me slow, starting at my bare midriff, lingering on the tiny...