𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The steel of the handcuff bit into James’s wrist, each twitch sending a dull ache through his arm. He shifted against the bench, chain rattling just loud enough to remind him of where he was. Possession. Four joints. That was all it took to drag him back to this place again.

The booking area was overcrowded, so they’d dumped him in a side room that smelled faintly of coffee and floor cleaner. A cop guided him inside, clipped the cuff to the bench, and tugged on the lock once for good measure. Before stepping out, the man looked across the room at the girl already there, her binder spread open, a textbook balanced on her knees.

“I’m ordering pizza for us tonight. Don’t feel like cooking,” the cop said.

“Okay, thanks, Dad,” you muttered, pencil scratching against paper.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving James in silence he hadn’t expected.

He thought he’d be alone, but you sat at the far end of the room, head bent, calm as a statue. Your hair slipped into your face now and then, and you brushed it back absently, never lifting your eyes from the page. You weren’t cuffed. You weren’t restless. Jeans, sneakers, sweatshirt—ordinary. Safe. The opposite of him.

James couldn’t figure out what you were doing here, though the word Dad lingered in the back of his mind. Cop’s kid. That explained the comfort, the calm, the reason you looked like you belonged in a classroom instead of this back room.

He tried to ignore you, sinking into his own head. He thought about the cops patting him down, the weight of their hands closing around his pocket, the way his stomach had dropped like stone. He thought about how his mom would look at him if she found out he was back here again. He thought about how easy it was to mess everything up.

But the longer he sat there, the more restless he got. The walls pressed closer.

His eyes kept drifting back to you. Focused. Steady. As if none of this touched you. The pencil’s steady scratch was the only sound between you.

James leaned forward, testing the chain. On the other side of the room, a rack of police belts hung loose on hooks. Keys dangled from one, close enough to notice, too far to reach. But you were near them.

The thought came quick and reckless—like most of his thoughts did. If he could get you to look up, maybe he could spin a grin, talk his way out of this. Words were the only blade he had left.

“Hey,” he called, voice low at first.

You didn’t react. Pencil still moving.

“Hey, you.”