The final corner came fast — flat out, tires howling but holding. Jaxon didn't lift. He knew the gap. Knew he had it.
Checkered flag.
He crossed the line and threw his fist into the air, hard — once, twice — shouting inside the helmet where no one could hear him. Pure release. Not cocky, not polished — just a kid who'd driven his ass off all season and sealed it with one last perfect run.
The kart bounced over the ripple strip as he came off throttle. His chest rose and fell fast. His arms were heavy. Every part of him buzzed.
He sat up slightly in the seat, scanning the paddock as he coasted down the straight. People were clapping near the fence. A few mechanics gave nods. He spotted Adam Bearman first — arms in the air, clapping, half-smiling like he'd seen it coming for weeks. Terri stood next to him, hands together, eyes tracking Jaxon the whole way. Ollie was just behind, nodding once, sharp and approving.
Jaxon raised his fist again, this time higher. He didn't wave. Just held it there a second like he was claiming the moment — and he was.
Every corner on the cooldown lap felt softer, looser, lighter. The pressure was gone. Nothing left to prove. Just clean laps now.
He passed a marshal post — they gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded back, jaw still tight with adrenaline. His arms ached, his back was damp under the suit, and he didn't care. He'd earned the pain.
As he coasted toward parc fermé, he leaned slightly forward, resting his gloves on the wheel — breathing harder now that it was safe to. The engine hummed beneath him, hot and lazy. He closed his eyes for half a second, just letting it sit. That was his.
Championship, done.
The kart rolled to a stop in parc fermé. Jaxon unbuckled the harness carefully, hands steady inside his gloves. He slid out smoothly, suit zipped tight, helmet still locked down with visor down. His breath was heavy but controlled.
Adam leaned casually against the pit wall, arms crossed, Terri standing right beside him, calm and steady. Ollie stood just behind them, eyes fixed on Jaxon as he approached.
Jaxon's shoulders stayed tight, the tension of the race still there, but he walked over with measured steps, stopping just short of the group.
Adam with a smirk, creeping under the shadow of his brow. "So, you're the king now. What's that feel like? Like walking on clouds or stomping on everyone's dreams?"
Jaxon shifted, visor catching the harsh light. "Feels like I'm still sweating."
Terri chuckled, voice smooth as whiskey. "Good answer. Means you haven't lost your edge."
Ollie watched from the sidelines, arms folded, eyes sharp. "Watching you out there was something else. Logan never had a chance."
Jaxon tilted his helmet. "Snapping's easy when you're chasing."
Thomas drifted in, quiet as a ghost, helmet tight, gloves dangling. "Third place. Not exactly a crown, but it's all I'm taking home."
Jaxon shot him a glance. "Had your shot."
Thomas's voice low, almost a challenge. "And I blew it."
Adam laughed, rough and quick. "No one's handing out trophies for good tries. You either take it or get left behind."
Terri's smile deepened. "That's racing. No participation ribbons."
Ollie's gaze flicked between the two. "Next year, you'll have to work harder."
Jaxon's visor lifted just a crack, eyes sharp. "Yeah."
Thomas grinned under the helmet, voice tight. "You better watch your back."
Adam clapped his hands once, the sound sharp. "Alright, boys, enough talking. Season's over. Go enjoy your podium."
—
The podium stood simple but sharp against the paddock backdrop. Jaxon, Logan, and Thomas climbed the steps. The crowd was a mix of families and teams, clapping quietly.
Jaxon took center, championship trophy heavy in his hands. His breath was uneven, exhaustion and satisfaction mixing in his chest. He caught Logan's eye to his right — Logan gave a small nod.
Thomas was to the left, third place, his expression a mix of pride and frustration.
Someone handed them bottles — non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice, chilled and fizzy. Jaxon popped the cap off, glanced down the line, and with a subtle grin, sprayed a quick burst into the air. The cool mist caught the light, sparkling faintly.
Jaxon took a long sip, then looked to Logan without breaking eye contact. They exchanged a look that was competitive but respectful, both knowing this was just the start.
Logan tipped his bottle and sprayed a fine arc over the front of the podium. Thomas followed, followed by Jaxson, his laugh muffled but genuine.
The crowd clapped low-key but sincerely.
The Bearmans stood a few feet back. Terri's smile was soft and proud, Adam's nod steady, Ollie watching quietly.
—
The paddock was winding down, the late evening air cool against their skin. Jaxon sat back on a crate, the championship trophy resting beside him like a quiet reminder of the day's work. Ollie sprawled on a folding chair, legs kicked up, grinning like he already owned the world. Thomas leaned casually against a trailer, water bottle in hand, his grin loose and easy.
Ollie broke the silence first, voice cracking like he'd just thought of something clever. "Alright, Jax, be honest — your playlist, that shoegaze stuff, is that just to make everyone around you think you're deep, or do you actually vibe with it?"
Jaxon didn't even blink, his smile slow and dry. "I listen to it because it's the perfect soundtrack for when I want to pretend I'm emotionally unavailable."
Thomas chuckled. "So basically, you're the angsty teenager of the karting world."
"Hey," Jaxon shot back, "if I'm angsty, I'm the most emotionally consistent angsty teenager you'll ever meet."
Ollie laughed, shaking his head. "Man, I don't get it. Shoegaze? Isn't that just a fancy way of saying 'lots of guitar noise'?"
"Yeah," Jaxon said, voice deadpan. "Lots of guitar noise and vague lyrics about looking at the ceiling and feeling sad."
Thomas smirked. "Sounds like a perfect soundtrack for waiting in parc fermé."
Ollie rolled his eyes. "I'm more of a classic rock guy myself. Give me some Led Zeppelin or The Rolling Stones any day."
Jaxon raised an eyebrow. "So you want to sound like you ride a Harley but you probably haven't touched one?"
"Harley's overrated anyway," Ollie shot back. "Give me a beat that makes me wanna stomp my foot and yell at the sky."
Thomas grinned. "I'm in the middle. I like stuff that doesn't make me feel like I'm at a funeral but also doesn't make me wanna start a mosh pit."
"Middle ground, huh?" Jaxon mused. "So, you're the guy who brings a book to a fight."
"Better than bringing a guitar to a drag race," Thomas said with a laugh.
Ollie nodded, clearly proud of himself. "Exactly. Music's gotta have energy. Something that kicks you in the teeth and tells you to keep going."
Jaxon tapped the side of the trophy thoughtfully. "I get that. That's why I mix in Radiohead when I'm not drowning in Julie Mk.Gee or Sundots. Radiohead's like the soundtrack for when you want to feel smart and miserable."
Ollie blinked, smirking. "Wait, what? You said Mc dot Gee like it's a secret agent or something?"
Jaxon grinned. "Exactly. It's the only words on his Spotify profile, so it must mean something to the guy."
Ollie laughed. "Man, you're weird."
Jaxon shrugged. "Maybe. But at least I'm weird with good taste."
Thomas pretended to jot something down. "Smart and miserable. Sounds like a winning combo."
"Yeah," Jaxon said, voice dry but with a hint of humor. "Nothing like a little existential dread to get the lap times down."
Ollie shook his head, grinning. "You guys are all messed up. I listen to whatever makes my head wanna bang against the steering wheel."
Thomas raised his water bottle. "To banging our heads and pushing the limits."
Jaxon smirked, clinking his bottle against Ollie's. "To pretending we know what we're doing."
Ollie laughed. "Hey, if pretending works, it counts."
Thomas grinned. "That's racing and music. Fake it till you make it."
Ollie stretched, a lazy grin on his face. "You ever notice how our parents think their music is the only real music? Like Led Zeppelin's the soundtrack to everything."
Thomas laughed. "Yeah, my dad's been stuck on Pink Floyd since forever. Acts like it's some kind of ancient scripture."
Jaxon shook his head, smirking. "Mine's all about classic country. Swears every good story's told through a sad guitar."
Ollie raised an eyebrow. "Country, huh? That's gotta be rough after a day like today."
Jaxon shook his head, smirking. "Mine's all about classic country. Hate the sound, but the stories? Can't argue with that."
Thomas nodded. "True. Dad used to blast Creedence Clearwater Revival. I swear I could hum 'Fortunate Son' before I could walk."
Ollie snorted. "Man, mom's big into the '80s pop stuff. You know, all the synths and those crazy hair bands. She tries to get me to dance to it. I just stand there like a statue."
Jaxon smirked. "Bet she'd kill to see us headbanging to some shoegaze."
Ollie laughed. "Yeah, she'd think we were summoning demons or something."
Thomas leaned back, thoughtful. "It's funny how music's this bridge but also a wall sometimes. Like we get where they're coming from, but we're on a different wavelength."
Jaxon's eyes glinted. "Exactly. They got their anthems; we got ours. Doesn't mean one's better — just different battles, different wars."
Ollie nodded slowly. "Yeah. But if my mom puts on another one of those hair metal ballads, I'm gonna lose it."
Thomas grinned. "Guess that makes us the soundtrack rebels of the family."
Jaxon laughed. "Long live the rebels."
Ollie glanced over at Jaxon, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, serious question — what's the weirdest song you've ever caught yourself actually liking? Like, the kind you wouldn't admit out loud."
Jaxon thought for a moment, smirking beneath his tired eyes. "Alright, don't judge me, but... sometimes I get hooked on those weird indie pop bands. Like that one track that sounds like a bunch of cats walking on a keyboard."
Thomas laughed. "Dude, that's hilarious. I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm picturing some tiny feline rave."
Ollie shook his head, grinning. "I'm stuck with guilty pleasures from the early 2000s. You know, like those pop punk bands with all the screaming and catchy hooks. Not exactly what I blast in the kart, but late nights? Yeah."
Jaxon raised an eyebrow. "Pop punk, huh? That's a far cry from whatever weird indie stuff you're into."
Ollie shrugged. "Hey, you gotta mix it up. Keep the ears guessing."
Thomas smirked. "Sounds like you guys have some wild playlists. I'm still stuck on my dad's classic rock station when I'm home."
Jaxon nudged him. "You're just too lazy to update your playlist."
Thomas grinned. "Maybe. Or I just know what works."
Ollie stood, stretching. "Alright, enough music therapy for one night. You boys coming for some food? I'm starving."
Jaxon smiled, feeling the fatigue creeping back but content. "Yeah, let's go— but first, I gotta hit the bathroom before I fall apart."
Thomas tossed his bottle aside. "Lead the way, king."
Jaxon walked off, weaving between trailers and tents, boots clicking on the cracked pavement. The bathroom was a simple, weathered building tucked behind the team garages.
A quick moment inside—cool air and the steady drip of a faucet—then back out into the fading light.
As he rounded the corner toward where Ollie and Thomas had stayed, his eyes caught Adam and Terri talking quietly with a man in sharp Mercedes team gear. The man's presence felt deliberate, focused.
Curious, Jaxon veered over to Ollie and Thomas, who were watching the trio from a few feet away.
They stood quiet for a beat, eyes locked on Adam, Terri, and the Mercedes guy deep in conversation.
Ollie broke the silence first, voice low but grinning. "Think that's about us?"
Thomas snorted. "Well, why else would they be talking to your parents if it wasn't?"
Jaxon shrugged, smirking. "Maybe they're just gossiping about us. Probably saying, 'Those kids better watch their backs.'"
Ollie laughed. "Yeah, like we're some kind of secret racing mafia or something."
Thomas shook his head, still amused. "Whatever it is, it's gotta be big if Mercedes showed up. Makes me wanna freak out and not at the same time."
Jaxon leaned back, crossing his arms. "I don't know. Maybe it's just one of those 'we need to talk' things that means nothing, or maybe it's the start of something."
Ollie grinned. "Either way, I'm betting it's gonna be interesting."
Thomas nodded. "Yeah, feels like the kind of thing you'll want front-row seats for."
Jaxon smirked. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
They exchanged looks, a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling under the surface.
Jaxon walked back around the side of the trailers, his race boots crunching faint gravel underfoot, the sky above now washed in indigo. Most of the paddock noise had dimmed — engines off, tents half-packed, people drifting around like the credits had started rolling.
He wasn't ten steps in before he saw it: Adam Bearman, arms crossed, posture cool as ever, standing in quiet conversation with a man in a pressed black Mercedes shirt. The guy had the look — proper, buttoned-up, not here to chat about tire pressures. Terri stood beside Adam, unreadable but clearly engaged.
Jaxon slowed down, watching from the edge. Off to the right, tucked behind a stack of trolley carts, Ollie and Thomas leaned with their backs against a low metal rail, eyes locked on the scene.
Jaxon drifted over to them. "What's going on?"
Ollie nodded toward the guy in black. "He just showed up like five minutes ago. No name, no intro — straight to business with Adam and Mum."
Thomas shrugged. "Looks like Mercedes. That badge ain't subtle."
Jaxon stared across the lot, trying to read body language. "Why would he be talking to Adam?"
Thomas gave him a look. "Why do you think, dumbass?"
"Maybe Adam's getting signed as a reserve driver," Jaxon muttered.
"That'd be a plot twist," Ollie added. "Imagine the announcement: 'We saw his parenting skills, figured he'd be great in an F2 seat.'"
They cracked up quietly. Just then, the man gave Adam a firm nod, a handshake, and peeled off down the path between team tents.
Adam and Terri stayed put.
"C'mon," Thomas said. "Let's go find out."
The three of them headed over together, the gravel crunching louder under their boots now. They still had their suits on, zips high. Jaxon carried his helmet by the strap, gloves tucked inside it.
Adam looked up first. "Hey, boys."
Terri smiled gently. "You guys disappeared. Thought we'd lost you."
Jaxon nodded. "We were watching from the side."
Thomas didn't wait. "So, who was the Mercedes guy?"
Adam looked at Jaxon and said it flat: "He was here about you."
Jaxon blinked. "Me?"
"Yup." Adam's voice didn't rise, didn't stretch the moment. "Said he's been tracking your races. Noticed how you handle yourself on track. Calm. Clean. Measured. Said you drive like someone older."
Ollie raised his eyebrows. "He actually said that?"
"'Mature beyond his years,'" Adam said. "Direct quote."
Thomas gave Jaxon a shove. "You're officially on the list now."
Jaxon looked from one face to the next, chewing it over, then asked, "But why talk to you guys? Why not… y'know, my dad?"
Adam gave him a small shrug. "Because he's not here. And since you've been traveling with us this whole season, he asked who your guardian was. That's me, for now."
Terri added, "It's just how it works. They wanted to speak to someone they knew would actually respond."
Thomas smirked. "So wait… does that mean Mercedes thinks Adam's your dad now?"
Jaxon deadpanned, "Guess that makes Ollie my annoying older brother."
Ollie flicked him. "I'm flattered. You'd be lucky."
Adam pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, like he'd just remembered. "Also, not just Mercedes."
He tapped a few times and turned the screen around. A list of emails was open in his inbox:
McLaren Junior Program – Driver Interest
Williams Development Inquiry: Jaxon Rose
Red Bull Academy – Early Monitoring
Renault Sport – Contact Request
Thomas leaned forward, eyes wide. "Okay, that's… that's serious."
Ollie whistled. "You might wanna start practicing your autograph. Or at least learn how to spell 'Renault.'"
Jaxon blinked at the screen. "They all sent those?"
"Today," Adam said. "Once the results came in. Word gets around quick."
Terri, still calm, added, "It doesn't mean you have to do anything yet. Just… teams are watching now. A lot of them."
Thomas clapped Jaxon on the back. "Alright, King Jax. Your inbox is already more stacked than mine."
Ollie nodded. "He wins the title and a bidding war in the same day."
Adam put the phone back in his pocket. "Well… looks like simulator sessions are gonna replace homework."
"Good," Jaxon said. "Never liked homework anyway."
Thomas smirked. "Bet Red Bull's got a math quiz where all the answers are throttle percentages."
Ollie leaned back, arms crossed. "Pretty sure their onboarding process is just 'Don't crash and don't say anything weird on camera.'"
"Guess I'm already halfway qualified," Jaxon said, dry.
Adam gave a lazy grin. "Just don't forget who drove you to all those cold-ass tracks."
Terri added, "And who packed your damn lunches."
"Fine," Jaxon muttered, "you all get a cut when I hit Formula 1."
Thomas lifted a hand. "I want ten percent and lifetime tire vouchers."
"I want your first team hoodie," Ollie said. "But only if it's not orange."
Jaxon looked at both of them, shook his head. "You guys are the worst negotiators."
Adam smirked, pulling his phone out again for a quick scroll. "By the way — Ollie's been getting some serious interest from Ferrari. Been holding off telling you, thought it'd mess with the vibe."
Ollie's eyes went wide. "Wait — now you decide to drop that? After I've been busting my ass all season?"
Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. "Classic Dad move. Keep the good news hidden until it stings."
Adam shrugged, grinning. "Gotta keep you boys on your toes. Can't have anyone getting comfortable."
Ollie shot Adam a glare but couldn't help smirking. "You're lucky I'm too tired to throw a wrench at you right now."
—
The Bearman living room felt lived-in and warm — a small island of calm after the chaos of race day. Pizza boxes were pushed to the side, half-empty cans of soda rested on the coffee table, and the late evening light spilled through the curtains.
Ollie stood at the whiteboard, marker in hand, scribbling rapidly under each team's name: Red Bull, Mercedes, Williams, Renault, McLaren, Ferrari. The board already held a messy list of technical pros and cons, the handwriting casual but purposeful.
Jaxon and Thomas sat cross-legged by the laptop, scrolling through forums, driver career stats, and technical reports.
"Alright," Ollie said, turning with a grin. "Red Bull — big money, bigger headaches. Pros?"
Thomas raised a hand like a teacher. "Top-tier engineering. Fastest car most seasons. Aggressive driver development."
Jaxon nodded, adding, "Cons: cutthroat atmosphere. They churn through drivers like engines at Monaco. If you don't perform immediately, you're out."
Ollie jotted it down. "Got it. Now Mercedes?"
Thomas tapped the screen. "Best infrastructure, best sim tech, amazing data team."
Jaxon frowned. "But no open seats for years, and they're super careful with rookies. They don't rush you out, but it means you could be waiting a long time."
Ollie chuckled, writing on the board: No seats + patient development = slow climb.
"Williams?" Ollie asked, waving the marker.
Jaxon flipped a page on the laptop. "Lower budget, slower car, but they've promoted some guys lately. Patience is their game."
Thomas leaned back. "Cons: The car's usually midfield garbage. You might prove yourself but stuck in traffic forever."
Ollie grinned. "Midfield hell — sounds cozy."
Renault got a long look.
Thomas squinted. "They're trying to rebuild. Decent tech staff, but results vary season to season."
Jaxon added, "If they can stabilize, big opportunities. But risky — they might blow it and lose funding."
Ollie flicked the marker at the board. "Risky gamble with possible big rewards. Like dating a rockstar with commitment issues."
Jaxon snorted.
McLaren's turn.
Thomas raised a finger. "Strong history, improving car, new leadership."
Jaxon nodded. "They're making progress, but their junior program isn't as tight as Red Bull's or Ferrari's."
Ollie wrote, "Good facilities, mid-pressure environment. Could be a grower, not a shooter."
"Last up — Ferrari," Ollie said, voice dropping like a hype man.
Jaxon leaned forward. "Iconic. Incredible resources."
Thomas sighed. "But a pressure cooker. They expect results immediately, and their politics are… brutal."
Ollie grinned wider. "Like stepping into the lion's den wearing steak as cologne."
Jaxon laughed. "Yeah, that's about right."
Ollie wiped the board. "So, pros and cons, people. Real talk. No hype."
Jaxon rubbed his chin. "It's like picking your poison."
Thomas smirked. "Or picking which shark tank to jump in."
Ollie chuckled, "Jaxon's got that look. Like, 'I don't care which tank, just give me the biggest damn fin.'"
Jaxon shot Ollie a fake glare. "Someone's gotta keep you honest."
Thomas grinned. "Alright, what's the verdict?"
Jaxon shrugged. "Hard to say. I want speed and a shot at results, but I don't want to be tossed aside if I slip up."
Ollie nodded, tapping the whiteboard thoughtfully. "That's the struggle. Fast teams have zero patience. Slower teams might stall your career."
Thomas said, "At least it's good to have options."
Jaxon smiled, tired but genuine. "Yeah. For once, it feels like I'm the one driving this decision."
Adam walked into the room, his easygoing face gone. He called Jaxon aside, voice low but firm. "Jaxon, come with me."
Jaxon followed silently, heart pounding. They stepped into the small, quiet room off the living area, the noise from the others fading behind the closed door.
Adam pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out without a word.
Jaxon took the device, fingers trembling.
A calm but serious voice came through. "Hello, is this Jaxon Rose? This is Mark from Child Protective Services. I'm calling with some difficult news about your father, Curtis."
Jaxon's breath caught in his throat. His back pressed against the wall, and he slowly sank down to the floor, knees folding beneath him.
"We're very sorry to inform you that your father passed away two days ago."
Jaxon whispered, voice cracking, "How... how did he die?"
There was a pause. "The cause was liver failure due to cirrhosis," Mark said gently. "We understand this is sudden and hard to process."
Jaxon's voice cracked. "What's gonna happen to me?"
There was a brief pause on the line. Mark's tone softened but stayed clear and honest.
"Right now, Jaxon, the most important thing is that you're safe. We'll work with your guardian — in this case, Adam — to make sure you have a place to stay, food, school, and everything you need. You won't be alone in this."
Jaxon's chest tightened, his fingers curling tighter around the phone.
"If you have any questions or need help, we're here. It's a lot to take in, and we'll take it one step at a time."
Jaxon's voice cracked again. "Can I see him?"
There was a pause on the line, the weight of the question hanging heavy.
Mark's voice came back steady but gentle. "I understand why you want that, Jaxon. Sometimes, visits like that take time to arrange. We have to make sure it's safe and appropriate for everyone involved. We'll do everything we can to help, but I can't promise it'll happen right away."
Jaxon exhaled slowly, the weight settling heavier now.
"Is there anyone else you can call? A family member or close friend?"
Jaxon shook his head. "No. It's just… me."
Mark's voice softened further. "Alright. We'll make sure you have people to support you."
Jaxon nodded, though Mark couldn't see it.
"Thank you for talking with me, Jaxon. We'll be in contact soon to help with the next steps."
The line went dead.
Jaxon stayed pressed against the wall, the silence now deafening.
Adam's footsteps approached again, quiet but steady.
"Come on," Adam said gently. "Let's get you some air."
The room was cold.
Not just from the sterile air that hummed through the ceiling vents — but something deeper. Something that clung to the tile floor, that echoed in the silence between each shallow breath Jaxon took.
He stood still, the walls pressing in with their dull white emptiness. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. A folded curtain hung to one side. No windows. No noise from outside. Just the soft creak of his shoes on the floor and the quiet tick of a clock that didn't seem to move.
In the center of the room: a metal table. And on it, a sheet.
Curtis Rose had filled every room he'd ever been in — with sound, with motion, with anger. Now he was flat, silent. Reduced to a shape beneath a sterile drape.
Jaxon didn't move closer at first. He just looked. Took in the harsh lines of the corners, the steel glint of the table legs. The way the sheet was tucked so neatly over the man who never lived neat a day in his life.
His arms stayed loose at his sides. Not shaking. Not clenched. Just… there.
He took one step forward. Then another. The scuff of his shoe against the floor seemed loud in the silence.
The closer he got, the smaller everything felt. Not just the room — but the weight he thought Curtis would carry into death. It wasn't there. No screaming. No chaos. Just a still body and the cold hum of machines.
He stopped beside the table.
The tag hung from the man's toe, poking out from beneath the edge of the sheet. Jaxon didn't lift it. Didn't reach for anything.
He just looked.
For a moment, his jaw twitched. Not from grief. Just something tightening behind his teeth — some muscle memory that kicked in from all the years of holding things in.
His chest rose and fell in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He didn't cry.
There was no closure. No final words. No scene to tie things up.
Curtis was gone. Just like that.
Jaxon stared at the sheet, eyes dull behind the fogged visor of emotion. He felt the quiet press down on him, thick like damp concrete.
He thought of the garage. The shouting. The long silences that followed. He thought of that damn socket wrench Curtis always lost, and the smell of fuel and sweat and beer.
Then, he thought of the sound the kart made over the finish line.
That was the only thing that cut through.
The man under that sheet had gotten him to the grid. He'd also nearly broken him doing it. Now there wasn't a man anymore. Just silence. Just absence.
He backed away slowly. No sudden movement. No drama. Just steps. Measured. Controlled.
Jaxon turned without a word, one last glance toward the sheeted figure behind him.
Then the door opened.
And the cold followed him out.
The hallway outside was brighter, but it didn't feel any warmer.
Jaxon stepped out of the viewing room, his footsteps dull against the linoleum floor. He blinked hard against the fluorescent glare, but his face stayed blank, unreadable. His jaw was tight, his shoulders low.
Adam stood a few paces away, hands in his coat pockets. Next to him was a man in a gray windbreaker and slacks — Mark, the CPS worker who'd called earlier.
They both turned as Jaxon approached.
Adam gave a short nod — not the kind people give when they're trying to comfort someone. Just something steady. Grounded.
Mark offered a softer expression. He spoke with a calm professionalism, but his tone wasn't cold. "Hey, Jaxon. I know that wasn't easy."
Jaxon didn't answer. He just stood there, still. Present, but distant.
Mark glanced at Adam, then back at Jaxon. "I just wanted to talk through the next steps with you. Nothing overwhelming. Just basics."
Jaxon gave the smallest nod.
"Right now, Adam's listed as your temporary guardian. Given the situation — no other immediate family — and that you've been staying with him already… we're going to move forward with having him take over full guardianship until you reach adulthood."
Jaxon's eyes flicked up to Adam. He didn't react much — just a slow breath, a quiet processing.
Mark continued, his voice even. "You'll be staying with the Bearmans now, officially. I know it's not where you were before, but given the circumstances and how they've stepped in, it's the best path forward. Nothing changes with your racing or school — just that, legally, Adam will be your guardian. He'll be the one handling paperwork, medical decisions, anything like that."
Jaxon's gaze stayed low, unmoving. The weight of the sentence lingered longer than the words themselves.
Adam didn't speak right away. He just stood steady, like a post in a storm — present, grounded, no expectations.
Mark softened his tone. "We'll keep checking in, make sure everything runs smooth. But you've got a place now. A stable one."
Jaxon gave a slow nod. It wasn't agreement. Just quiet acceptance. The kind that came after running out of other choices.
Adam spoke gently, voice steady. "We've got you, kid. Don't worry about any of that."
The silence held for a second longer. Then Jaxon looked at the floor, eyes focused on nothing in particular. "Thanks."
Mark offered a small smile, then reached into his pocket and handed Adam a folded envelope. "That's just paperwork. I'll be in touch."
He turned and left quietly down the corridor.
Adam didn't say anything at first. Just waited.
After a beat, Jaxon muttered, "He looked smaller."
Adam tilted his head slightly. "Your dad?"
Jaxon nodded.
Adam didn't press.
They stood there for another long moment before Adam finally said, "Ready to head back?"
Jaxon didn't answer. He just started walking.
Adam followed.
And behind them, the hospital doors closed with a soft hiss.