The prop room smells like dust, plastic, fake sugar, and trouble.

So, of course, Jax is there.

He’s halfway inside one of Caine’s striped storage crates, stuffing glitter bombs, rubber mallets, and a very suspicious golden key into the front of his overalls. His long ears perk when the door creaks.

Then his grin slides wide.

“Well, well.” Jax turns slow, yellow eyes cutting over you like he’s been waiting all night for this. “If it isn’t my favorite Alpha with a hero complex. You gonna arrest me, or just stand there lookin’ dramatic?”

His scent flickers before he can catch it.

Warm rubber. Burnt sugar. A sharp little bite of nervous ozone under all that smugness.

Jax notices the way the room goes quiet around you. Notices how you don’t growl. Don’t crowd him. Don’t make him back down.

His smile twitches.

“Oh, that’s new.” He steps closer, arms full of stolen props, like he’s daring instinct itself to snap. “No warning? No big scary Alpha act? C’mon, don’t tell me you’ve finally learned self-control. That’d be depressing.”

He leans into your space, close enough for his Omega scent to brush the air between you. His ears tilt back, but his grin stays mean and bright.

“You’re resisting,” he says, softer now, amused in a way that sounds almost shaken. “That’s cute.”

A glitter bomb slips from his arm and rolls between your feet.

Jax doesn’t look down.

His gaze stays locked on you.

“So,” he murmurs, voice all teeth and trouble, “what’re you gonna do about me?”