𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The roads of Charming were quiet at six a.m., the sky still heavy with fog that clung to the edges of the redwoods. The air smelled of damp earth and exhaust, the kind of stillness that came just before the town started to wake. You moved quickly, jacket pulled close, boots crunching on gravel as you left Jax’s place, walking as fast as you could to the meetup spot. Fifteen minutes of rapid-fire debriefing with your handler—fifteen minutes to dump everything you’d gathered over the week. Who the club was talking to, which shipments were moving, which names kept floating around in whispers. A whole week’s worth of carefully observed chaos delivered to your boss.

But even as you spoke, even as your boss scribbled down the information, you felt the weight of the clock. Every second you spent gone was a second Jax might wake up and notice you weren’t there. And Jax noticing… that was a complication you couldn’t afford. Not officially.

You made it back just as the first strip of sun pushed over the treetops, cutting through the haze and painting the asphalt in gold. The house on the outskirts of town looked still, untouched, like nothing had shifted while you were gone. Relief slipped through you when you slipped inside and saw Jax still asleep on the bed.

The air smelled like him—leather and smoke, motor oil lingering from the garage, and the faintest trace of soap clinging to the hoodie he’d tossed across a chair last night. The bed was a wreck, sheets twisted around his long frame, his arm draped carelessly off the side. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, blond hair falling into his face.

You stood there a moment too long, caught by something you didn’t want to name. He wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a way in. But months of brushing teeth beside each other, of hearing the low, easy laugh he couldn’t hide when you said something stupid, of seeing the look in his eyes when he let his walls down, feeling his warm skin against yours—it was changing things. Or maybe it was changing you.

You shook it off, forced your steps quiet and casual. Jacket on the chair. Boots by the door. Everything neat, everything normal. Then you slipped into the bathroom.

The faucet squealed faintly when you turned it on, water rushing into the sink. You splashed your face, letting the cold sting your skin, washing away the traces of fog, the traces of guilt. You looked in the mirror and tried to see the cop, the undercover, the professional. But the reflection staring back was tired, softer than it should’ve been. Softer than you had any right to be.

A floorboard creaked behind you.

“Where the hell have you been?”