STARTER: with @dcmnedbythelight WHERE AND WHEN: outside the sheriffʼs office, later 5am
. . . . . ╰──╮ the night had bled into morning. the haze of the night still clung to the air. jett was down to the last of the cleanup, the place mostly quiet now – just a few staff finishing up their closing routines, the occasional clink of glass breaking the stillness. he tossed a few more empty bottles into the bin, then stretched, rolling his shoulders back as he crouched to pick up a crumpled can from the floor. his knees ached when he straightened, a dull reminder of how long he’d been at it. that’s when he checked his phone. the screen lit up with missed calls from an unknown number. brows furrowed, he tapped into his voicemail, pressing the device to his ear. then came the voice – low, familiar, and vaguely irritated.
hey, sorry. i’m in holding. can you get me?
he sighed, rolling his shoulders back. of course he is. by now, this little game between them had become second nature. a messy, tangled fling that sparked before either of them knew they were on opposite sides of a war, but neither had the nerve to full walk away from, either.
jett peeled off the bartender gear, swapping it for a basic t shirt and jeans, tying his jacket around his waist. outside, he straddled his bike, the sunrise bleeding orange across his helmet’s visor. wind biting his knuckles. no rush – dc wasn’t going anywhere – but he got there soon enough, handled the paperwork, paid the damn bail, then waited out front – helmet still on, head low to dodge any eyes that might clock him. dc finally shuffled out, and jett’s voice cut through the quiet, dry and edged.
❛ — your reaper friends left you hanging? ❜ the words came easily, laced with something between amusement and exasperation. he didn’t bother with pleasantries, just watched him approach before he pushed off the bike, one boot hitting the pavement with purpose. he asks, ❛ — how do you plan on getting home? ❜