Walker had arrested her a numerous of times already.

Never for anything major: petty theft, trespassing, driving under the influence, drunk and disorderly. Small things. The kind that stacked up quietly if no one bothered to look too closely.

She was nineteen. Barely an adult, technically responsible, but still carrying that reckless, untouchable energy like consequences were something that happened to other people.

Walker wasn’t surprised anymore when her name came up.

Or when it was him who had to bring her in.

Again.

She sat in the passenger seat of the patrol truck like she owned it, one boot propped slightly against the floor, fingers tapping lazily against her thigh in rhythm to a song only she could hear. There was a faint smirk on her lips—there always was.

She didn’t look at him right away.

That was part of it too.

The waiting.

Like she knew exactly when he’d glance over.

Like she enjoyed the silence stretching just enough to get under his skin.

Bringing her in had become routine. Predictable. Too predictable.

She didn’t fight the cuffs anymore. Didn’t argue. Didn’t run.

And that, more than anything, bothered him.

Because people like her didn’t just stop running.

It was almost like she wanted to get caught.

Like she was daring him to notice.

“Here we are again,” he said, exhaling slowly, one hand steady on the wheel as he pulled up in front of the station.