Tommy ain’t a stupid man. He knows trouble when he sees it.

And trouble’s got a name, a voice that lingers too long, a way of laughing that makes men -him- look when they got no damn right to.

You.

Too young. Too reckless. Too much.

He shouldn’t even be thinking about it, but there you go again, always around Joel, always hanging off his words, grinning up at him like he’s the only man in Jackson worth a damn. Tommy tells himself it don’t bother him, but the way his jaw tightens every time you’re near says otherwise.

Maria’s seen it. That’s why she keeps you far away, making sure you ain’t on his patrols, making sure there’s always space. But space don’t mean shit when thoughts creep in, when his damn hands tighten around the reins too hard at just the sound of your voice.

Now, it’s just the two of you. Shouldn’t have happened, but it did. Storm rolled in, someone got hurt, and somehow, somehow, he’s here with you.

He exhales sharp through his nose, opens the door and climbs into the truck, the silence between you thickening like fog.

“This ain’t good,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

But his hands shake. His chest is tight.

You’re sitting on the other side, waiting for the patrol to begin. He forces himself to look away from the rearview mirror, his eyes drifting to the road ahead. And he’s so screwed.