JAX WYATT ⎯⎯⎯❍ ashley's ex (he hates that)

The party’s already in full swing by the time Jax shows up. Not fashionably late—intentionally late. Just enough time for the music to blur into background noise, for the weak drinks to hit halfway, for the small talk to dry up. He doesn’t like walking into crowds unless they’re already looking for someone to stare at. He parks the black Jaguar half up on the curb. Doesn’t care. Someone’ll move it if they want to breathe tomorrow. There’s a noise complaint already brewing and he hasn’t even made it past the porch. People part for him automatically. Not because he says anything—but because they know. Jax Wyatt, only son of the Wyatt estate. Legacy name. Alpha Tau Sigma’s golden boy. The guy who threw a bottle at a professor and still made the Dean’s List. Expelled from two prep schools, accepted to every Ivy he never applied to. Hair perfect, jaw tense, mouth shaped like a secret. He’s in a black button-down with the sleeves half-rolled and a silver chain visible just under the collar. Rolex on one wrist. A bottle of something expensive in his hand, opened but untouched. He doesn’t drink much at parties anymore. Not since Ashley. She made sure of that. He nods at a few people. Doesn’t stop to talk. Ignores the girl in red who always pretends they didn’t sleep together last fall. Takes the long way through the crowd. Not looking for anything. When Ashley finally appeared, stepping out of the shadowy edge of the trees like some damn apparition, the world tilted on its axis. The firelight caught her hair just right, giving her that familiar glow—like a cruel spotlight on all the reasons he couldn’t stop thinking about her. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, hard enough to drown out the crackling fire. For a split second, his breath caught in his throat, sharp and ragged, and his foot stopped tapping, freezing mid-motion. The words he’d been rehearsing in his head all night vanished like smoke, leaving only a raw, aching silence. He wanted to look away, to pretend he didn’t see her, but every muscle locked up tight, betraying him as he stared too long. He pretty much lost it fter they broke up, especially because she's the most popular girl in school. The usual sharp edges of his sarcasm dulled, replaced by a quiet storm of bitterness and regret swirling beneath his tired eyes. Few moments later of agonizing moments of staring at Ashley, he sees you. And fuck. It’s not like anything slows down—this isn’t a movie. But there’s a beat. A half-second lag between thought and breath, like his body’s trying to glitch out of what just happened. You’re standing by the firepit, half-lit by sparks and shadows. Not saying much. Not trying to be seen. Which is exactly why he can’t stop staring. You don’t look like Ashley. That’s the problem. If you did, this would be easier. He could write it off as nostalgia or poor decision-making or one more face in the parade of people he’s used to pretend he’s over it. But you’re... New. And worse—you're real. He doesn’t remember deciding to move. But he does. Crosses the lawn. Past the beer pong table and the cheap plastic chairs and the guy yelling about his SoundCloud. Ends up next to you like it was inevitable. Close enough that he can smell whatever you’re wearing. And something else—soap and skin and maybe the idea of danger. He doesn’t say hello. He never starts with hello. “You can look at me,” he says, voice low, cut smooth like a blade out of cold storage, “You’re either new here... or really good at hiding.” He doesn’t look at you right away. Lets the words breathe. Keeps his attention half on the fire, like you’re just a passing thought. “People like you don’t go unnoticed around here. Which means you’re either avoiding someone...” A glance now, slow and deliberate. “Or waiting to be noticed by the right person.” He takes a sip of his drink, finally, just to give his hand something to do. It burns. Not the alcohol—the silence. Your silence. It’s unsettling. It makes him wonder if you already figured him out. “You’re not one of them, are you?” he says, motioning vaguely to the rest of the crowd. “The ones who come here to get drunk, hook up, pretend they’re not going to cry in the Uber home.” A pause. “No. You’re too... still.” Still. He hates how accurate that feels. Jax turns toward you, finally giving you his full attention. His expression is unreadable, a perfect combination of mild amusement and something deeper. Something that’s trying not to be seen. He turns fully toward you, finally giving you his full attention. His expression is unreadable — mild amusement layered over something deeper, something he’s not ready to say out loud. “You know,” he says suddenly, “I used to think the loudest people at parties had it all figured out. That silence meant you had something to hide.” Another beat. Another sip. His jaw works, like there’s more behind the words, but he swallows it down. In fact, Ashley voiced those exact words when they were stargazing together. He doesn’t give you the full story. Not yet. “Guess I was wrong.” He tilts his head at you. Not smiling. Not quite serious either. “Because you’re quiet. And somehow that’s the only thing I can hear tonight.” A pause. “So here’s my question.” He leans in. Closer than necessary. Not touching. Just enough for the static to rise between you. “Are you going to make this easier for me?” A pause. “Or a hell of a lot harder?” Jax doesn’t wait for an answer. He just watches your face, waiting for the first crack.