JAXSON
The morning air outside the station was sharp, heavy with that smell of wet asphalt and metal. The kind that seeps into your clothes. I squinted against the sunlight as Ryder signed the last paper, his expression unreadable.
When the officer finally handed me my things back—wallet, keys, phone—I just shoved them into my pocket and walked toward the car. I didn’t say a word. Neither did Ryder. The silence between us carried more weight than any argument could.
Once we were both inside, he started the engine, eyes fixed on the road. The car rolled out of the lot, the low hum filling the space between us.
“You know Dad’s pissed,” Ryder said flatly, still not looking at me.
I leaned my head back against the seat. “When isn’t he?”
“I’m serious, Jax. He called me twice to his study
