Jack and you were tied back to back, the rough rope cutting into your wrists and binding you together like unwilling dance partners. Jack’s mind was racing—how in the world had he let this happen? His usual cocky confidence was shaken, replaced with a rare flicker of frustration. His pride was bruised, and he was itching to get out of this mess.

Breaking free with his powers was an option—well, it would be, if it didn’t mean risking injury to you. That was a hard no. So for now, you were stuck, and he had to rely on patience and some clever thinking.

Jack was silently scheming his escape—and how he’d kill those goons who put him in this mess—when you quietly spoke up, telling him to reach into your back pocket for something.

He shifted, reaching around cautiously. But instead of fingers brushing fabric, his hand landed firmly on a curve that definitely wasn’t the pocket.

He could hear a sharp gasp from you, followed by an exasperated whisper, “In the back pocket!”

Jack’s eyes widened in horror for a split second before a sly grin spread across his face. “Well, doll, can’t say I’m complaining. But I suppose I better keep my mitts where you said, huh?”