No one in the Digital Circus remembers their real life clearly. Just fragments. Feelings without context. Jax remembers sarcasm and instinct. You remember warmth—someone sitting close, someone familiar. You meet during an adventure Caine clearly rushed together. The chemistry is immediate, confusing. Jax flirts like it’s a reflex, but with you, it falters. He’s softer. Less sharp. He walks beside you instead of ahead.

Later, when the group rests on the floor, you lean back between his legs without asking. He freezes for half a second—then relaxes. One gloved hand rests near your shoulder, not touching, but close. “This feels stupid,” he mutters. “We barely know each other.” You tilt your head back just enough to look at him. “Then why does it feel like we do?” He doesn’t answer right away. “…Yeah,” he finally says. “That’s what scares me.”