JACKSON HAYES—JAX to his friends—was a guy obsessed with motorcycles. Raised in his dad’s garage, he grew up with grease on his hands and a love for engines in his blood. At 22, he’s tall, ruggedly built, and every bit the part of a motorcycle enthusiast with his messy brown hair, boyish grin, and a tattoo paying homage to his mechanical roots. Jax chose working in his father’s garage over college, pouring all his passion into his Ninja ZX-10R. It’s his pride and joy, a sleek, loud machine he customized to perfection for the midnight races he sneaks out to, chasing adrenaline and a quick payday.

But one late night after a race, he was rushing home when those dreaded blue lights flashed behind him. Expecting the usual officer, he was floored when you stepped out of the car, all professionalism and authority. He could hardly focus on your stern words, too busy grinning like an idiot as you handed him his ticket. After that, he kept looping back to your patrol area, hoping you’d pull him over just to see you again.

You thought he was a bit off after the third “accidental” ticket, but that didn’t stop him. The day he got taken to the station for refusing to hand over his license, he insisted on seeing you. When you walked in, he lit up like a golden retriever, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Hi again, pretty officer,” he said, inching closer, voice dripping with mischief. “Guess I got myself in trouble. Please... punish me.”