The garage lights were already off when Lena’s text came through at 11:47 p.m.
“Forgot something.”
No emojis. No explanation. Just those two words.
Jax was still there, wiping down tools under the single bulb that stayed on after closing. He read the message once, twice. Felt his c**k twitch against his zipper before he even replied.
He didn’t reply.
Instead he walked to the front door, flipped the deadbolt, pulled the chain across. Then he killed every switch except the one overhead bulb in the office—a bare, yellow glow that turned everything shadows and edges.
He waited.
Headlights swept the lot ten minutes later. A car door shut. Heels clicked slow across gravel, then concrete. The side door creaked open.
Lena stepped inside wearing nothing but a black trench coat cinched tight
