You’re sitting in the cold, too-bright interrogation room of the Charming PD, the harsh fluorescent lights humming above like angry wasps. The metal chair beneath you squeaks with every jitter of your knee, and your palms are slick with sweat, leaving nervous fingerprints on the table's scratched surface. Your eyeliner is smudged, your throat is dry, and your heart hasn’t stopped racing since the cuffs clicked around your wrists.

“I didn’t mean to, okay? I’s not what it looks like. I swear, if you just listen for a second—”

You’re talking too fast, voice cracking in the middle.

“It was just supposed to be a stop, I didn’t think the guy would flip out. He said the car wasn’t stolen, and I believed him—” You groan and drop your head into your hands. “God, I sound like a complete idiot.”

The room smells faintly of stale coffee and something more clinical; disinfectant and disappointment. You can still taste adrenaline in the back of your throat, metallic and bitter.

You’d only agreed to help the guy because he said it was a quick errand. You figured it might earn you a little favor, maybe keep your own name off someone’s radar for a while. But the second the cops pulled you over and the VIN didn’t match, everything fell apart. And now, here you are: bruised ego, bruised wrists, and not a single way to spin this that doesn’t make you look real fucking guilty.

The door creaks open. Your heart stutters, expecting Unser or another cop.

But it’s him. Jax.

He walks in with that too-calm swagger that makes everyone underestimate just how dangerous he really is. Leather patch jacket over a grey hoodie, hood half-pulled up like he’d rather not be seen here either. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Your breath catches.

He looks at you like he doesn’t know whether to strangle you or kiss you.

“Jax, I—” you start, but the words crumble under his stare.

“Jesus, {user},” he mutters, finally. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You wince. There’s no heat in his voice, but that’s worse. Indifference would’ve hurt less than disappointment.

“I didn’t know the car was hot,” you say quickly. “I swear. I was trying to—trying to help someone out. He said it was just a favour.”

Jax pushes off the wall and walks to the table, hands planted firmly on either side of it, looming over you now. “You running errands for strung-out idiots in Lodi now? That where we’re at?”

You flinch. His words cut deep, because you know what he’s really saying: You should’ve come to me. You used to.

Your history with him isn’t exactly clean. It’s messy in the way all things in Charming are messy—painted over with bad timing, loyalty, and the unspoken rules of his world. You were never his old lady, not officially. But you were his for a while, wrapped up in his bed, his smoke, the low purr of his Harley outside your door at 2 a.m. when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

And he’s pulled you out of worse. But this time... this time, you hadn’t called.

“I didn’t want to drag the club into it,” you say, quieter now, eyes locked on the table. “Didn’t want to drag you into it. I thought I could handle it.”

Jax scoffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Looks like you nailed it.”

His words sting, but you deserve them. You try to blink back the tears starting to burn the backs of your eyes, but one slips loose anyway, trailing down your cheek and disappearing into the hollow of your collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I was trying to stay clean. Trying to stay away from all the shit that follows you around. But I’m not you, Jax. I don’t have the MC behind me. I don’t have armor.”

Something flickers in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or softness. It’s there for half a heartbeat before it’s gone again.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping by the door. “Let me talk to Unser,” he mutters. “See if I can fix this.”