My Mom Took In A Stray - The Look.

Everyone is 18+

I left my towel slung low around my hips as I knocked on Jax’s door the next morning.
Steam still clung to my skin from the shower, making the hall feel cooler than it was.
I didn’t bother drying my hair, just scrubbed it half-heartedly with one hand as I waited.

No answer.
Typical.

I pushed the door open anyway.

The guest room was quiet.
Still plain. Still neutral.
No scent yet, no clutter. No signs Jax had started calling it his. Just a bag half shoved under the bed and a hoodie tossed over the desk chair.

He was face-down in the sheets, out cold.

"Yo," I said, knocking on the doorframe with my knuckles.

Nothing.

I crossed the room, dropped a damp hand onto his shoulder, and gave him a firm shake.

"Get up. Mom’s a psycho about breakfast. You miss it, you’re getting kale smoothies and guilt-trips for a week."

Jax groaned, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like *fuck off*, and peeled his face off the pillow.

He looked softer like that.
Freckles smudged across sleep-flushed cheeks, curls a wild mess. One eye squinted open, blinking at me like I’d just dragged him out of a coma.

I didn’t linger.

But I caught the quick flick of his gaze — down my chest, to the towel riding low on my hips, then back up like he hadn’t meant to. Like it surprised him too.

Confidence curled hot and lazy in my gut.
I knew when I was being looked at.
Always had.

Jax’s jaw clenched.
He shoved upright and swung his legs off the bed like he could outrun the way his ears were turning pink.

I smirked and left him to it.

Breakfast was the usual chaos.

Sierra was already at the table, buttering toast and bitching about the blender Mom loved too much.
She tossed a grape at Jax the second he walked in.

"Morning, sunshine."

Jax caught it without looking, muttered something, but smiled a little, dimples flashing quick.
Sierra had a way of doing that. Smoothing the sharp edges.

We rode to the scrimmage together.
A generic hoops playlist bumping as we drove. I caught Jax stealing glances. Maybe he was nervous behind that brooding exterior.

"I’ll introduce you to some of the guys properly today," I said, glancing back. "I know you’ve met them before, but just to help you settle more."

"ppreciate it," he muttered. Then a pause. An audible exhale, like a little weight had been lifted.

I stayed locked behind the camera during the scrimmage. Snapping shots of layups, fast breaks, the team razzing each other.

But my lens kept finding Jax. The way he moved — coiled, explosive, like every muscle was strung too tight.

It was an intense scrimmage and by the end, Jax’s shirt clung to his back, hair curling wild with sweat.

I caught the frame without thinking: Jax bent over, hands braced on his knees, jersey darkened along the spine.

I told myself it was just a good shot.
Nothing more.

After the game, I stayed to put up a few shots. The ball clanged off the rim. Jax caught it one-handed and bounced it back to me without a word. I caught it, spun it once in my hands.

"You know rebounding’s a full-time job, right? You want me to pay you or something?"

Jax just grunted, barely a smile.

The dude had walls like Fort Knox.

"Or you could, I don't know," I said, lining up another shot, "talk. Instead of standing there looking like you wanna murder somebody."

This time, when he passed the ball back, he smirked, just a little.

"Not much to say."

"Yeah, no shit," I said, laughing under my breath. "You always like this?"

He shrugged.
"Guess."

"Good thing you're decent at rebounding then. Makes up for the sparkling conversation."

Jax rolled his eyes but jogged after another miss, tossing the ball back to me harder this time — enough to make my palms sting.

I caught it easy, grinning.

"There he is. Knew you had a little fight in you." He shook his head, muttering something I didn’t catch. Maybe it was *asshole.* Maybe it was *whatever.*

Didn’t matter.
Progress was progress.

I dribbled lazily at the top of the key.

"You gonna sulk the whole time you’re staying with us, or just today?" He stiffened for half a second. Then dropped his gaze to the floor, like he could stare a hole straight through the hardwood.

"Depends," he said finally.

"On?"

He shrugged again — sharp and guarded.

"Dunno."

The air stretched tight between us.

I let it hang.
Let him feel me looking at him: steady, calm, like I wasn’t scared of whatever armor he had welded over himself.

"Relax," I said, voice low, like coaxing a stray dog.

"I’m not here to fuck with you."

Jax looked at me then. Really looked. Like he was trying to decide if he believed it.

I didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile either.

Finally, finally, he let out a tiny breath through his nose. Not a laugh exactly, but close.

Then he nodded once.

"Okay," he said.

And for the first time since he showed up, it actually sounded like he meant it.

Later, in the locker room, the silence stretched long. Water hammered against the tiles. Another showerhead sputtered on. Two down from mine. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Jax.

Strong shoulders bunched under the spray, freckles darker against flushed skin. His back was broad but still lean, hips narrowing tight. His ass, firm, cut, the kind of build you got from real work, not some half-assed Instagram routine.

He was looking.

Not long. Not obvious.

But I could feel it.
That flicker of hesitation.
That heartbeat too long to be casual.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t flex.

Didn’t call him out.

I just let the steam close in around us, water pounding against my skin, the tension stretching tighter between the stalls.

I liked him looking. More than I should have.