Tucked just off the sun-warmed streets of historic Haleʻiwa Town, the Haleʻiwa Police Substation is a true local landmark—not for flashing lights and sirens, but for its steady, salt-sprayed presence and no-nonsense island charm.

Housed in a low-slung coral-colored building weathered by years of sea breeze and sun, this station blends right into the laid-back spirit of the North Shore. Out front, a crooked plumeria tree spills blossoms onto the cracked asphalt lot, while squad cars—more familiar with sandy board shorts than high-speed chases—wait patiently under the wide open sky.

Inside, the vibe stays easygoing and distinctly island-style. You'll find friendly officers (armed with clipboards and an endless supply of patience) who handle everything from missing surfboards to enthusiastic traffic cone collectors. The hum of old ceiling fans and the scent of salt air drift through the halls, giving even the holding cells a certain tropical resignation.

Whether you're lost, in need of directions, or simply looking for a story to tell when you get home ("that one time we got a warning for karaoke-related disturbances"), the Haleʻiwa Police Substation stands ready.

Here, aloha spirit meets tough love—and sometimes, that’s exactly the kind of adventure you didn’t know you needed.

Somewhere between the karaoke exile and the epic sword fight they started with a traffic cone on the walk home, it had apparently been decided:
Sam Carroll and Jess Montgomery needed a time-out from society.

At least, that’s what the very patient, very exhausted officer muttered as he herded them into the tiny, grimy holding cell at the back of the station, shaking his head like he’d seen a lot but this—
this was something special.

Sam slumped down against the cinderblock wall, still buzzing faintly from the aftershocks of laughter and neon lights and terrible slushie decisions.
Her shorts stuck to the cool concrete. Her tank clung damply to her ribs. Her bare knee had a scrape blooming across it from where she’d tripped trying to "defend her honor" during the cone joust.
She felt alive.
Charged.
Unbreakable.

The tiny fluorescent light overhead buzzed, casting everything in an ugly gray wash, but Sam didn’t care.
Not when Jess was slouched beside her, head tipped back against the wall, grinning like a man who’d just robbed a bank with his best friend and didn’t regret a second of it.

She craned her neck lazily, squinting out between the bars to the desk outside their cell.
There it was.
Their legacy.
The stupid plastic sword laid across a pile of boring manila folders.
The hot pink shutter shades perched askew on top of a desk lamp like some sad trophy.

Sam grinned wide and wicked and kicked Jess lightly in the shin with the toe of her filthy high-top.
"You realize," she said, voice bright and crackling with leftover adrenaline, "if this was a medieval kingdom, we’d be national heroes."

No answer from him—just that smug, broken-laugh smirk he always threw when he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth.

Sam shifted, pulling one knee up, slinging her arms over it loosely.
She stared down the hallway like she wasn’t trapped behind steel bars but sitting on some throne she and Jess had stormed together.

"I mean," she continued, half to herself, half to the blinking security camera probably recording all of this, "I knighted a man into the Sad Banger Hall of Fame, saved the karaoke economy, and engaged in noble sword combat defending the streets of O‘ahu from rogue traffic cones."

Her voice was exaggerated, lazy, that theatrical lilt she used whenever she was trying not to laugh too hard to finish the sentence.

She glanced sideways at him—caught the glint of mischief still tucked under his lashes—and her grin grew even sharper.

"And what did they do, Jess? What crime did we really commit, huh?"
She drummed her fingers dramatically against her knee.
"Excessive vibes? Grand theft dignity? Treason against boredom?"

Outside the cell, a tired-looking officer shuffled papers and side-eyed them like he was weighing whether or not to install a mute button.

Sam leaned her head back against the wall, closed her eyes for a second, still smiling.
Her hair was sticking damply to the back of her neck.
Her bracelet was cutting a soft, familiar dent into her wrist.
Her chest ached, a slow, golden thrum that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with him.

Without opening her eyes, she murmured:

"Totally worth it."

And she meant it.
Every second.
Every laugh.
Every stupid choice.
Every night they didn’t know when to quit.

Totally.
Completely.
Undeniably worth it.

Jess slumped deeper against the wall, the cold concrete bleeding through his soaked T-shirt, the scrape on his elbow still stinging from where he’d tried—and failed—to pull off a spinning sword block with a traffic cone.

Didn’t matter.
None of it mattered.

Because Sam was beside him, cheeks still flushed from laughter, hair stuck to her forehead, grinning like they hadn’t just gotten themselves tossed into a holding cell with nothing but bad decisions and a plastic sword to their names.

Jess let his head loll to the side, watching her like he wasn’t sure if this was real or just something his brain had made up—too good, too golden, too goddamn Sam.

The fluorescent lights made everything look gray and sickly, but somehow she still burned brighter than anything else in the room.
In the world, probably.

When she kicked him lightly in the shin, Jess smirked, lazy and slow, that low laugh rumbling up in his chest—the kind he only let loose when it was just her and no one else.

“You realize,” she said, all reckless joy and leftover adrenaline, “if this was a medieval kingdom, we’d be national heroes.”

Jess huffed a laugh under his breath, slouching down until their shoulders brushed, casual like gravity had decided it for them.

“Damn right we would,” he rasped, voice wrecked from laughter and shouting Whitney Houston lyrics at questionable volumes.
“Knighthood. Parade. Maybe a statue.”

He cracked one eye open, grinning sideways at her. “Think they’d let me keep the cone as my scepter?”

Sam didn’t even miss a beat—still going, still spinning the world around them like it was some half-drunk fairy tale.
Talking about the Sad Banger Hall of Fame, karaoke economies, rogue traffic cones.
Making a goddamn epic out of the stupidest, most brilliant night of his life.

Jess couldn’t stop looking at her.
At the way her voice tilted into that lazy, theatrical lilt she used when she was trying not to laugh herself into oblivion.
At the way she made even a holding cell feel like a goddamn castle they’d conquered together.

“And what did they do, Jess?” she asked, that glint sparking back into her eyes. “What crime did we really commit, huh?”

Jess tipped his head back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling, grinning so wide it hurt.

“High treason,” he croaked. “Against boring people everywhere.”

Sam drummed her fingers against her knee, pretending to be pensive, and Jess barely swallowed back another laugh. Outside the cell, some exhausted desk cop shifted papers like he was praying for early retirement.

Jess didn’t care.
He couldn’t bring himself to care about anything except the way Sam leaned back against the wall, still smiling like she knew a secret the world hadn’t figured out yet.

He watched her close her eyes, still grinning, like even this—even steel bars and scraped knees and slushie-sticky skin—was exactly where she was supposed to be.

And when she whispered it—soft, half-laughed, so real it punched right through his ribs—Jess felt it snap tight inside him.

“Totally worth it.”

God, he could’ve kissed her.
Could’ve carved those words into the inside of his chest and worn them like armor.

Instead, he slid his hand across the concrete floor, found hers without asking, without thinking, fingers tangling slow and sure.
Her palm was damp, warm, alive.
Perfect.

Jess squeezed once—solid, certain—and breathed out, rough and full of every goddamn thing he didn’t know how to say:

“Would do it again,” he muttered.
Soft. Sure. A little wrecked.

And he meant it.
Every scraped knee.
Every bad song.
Every stupid, brilliant second spent chasing her into trouble and dragging the world down around them.

Jess turned his head, just enough to catch her peeking one eye open, smile tilting into something that made him feel like maybe they hadn’t burned the world down tonight—
Maybe they’d just finally lit it up right.

And Jess, heart hammering steady in the mess of it all, thought:

Yeah.
If this is the kingdom we built—
I’m never leaving it.

Jess tightened his fingers around hers, grounding himself, anchoring himself to the only thing in the universe that felt real.

Sam.

God, Sam.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects, the cinderblock walls pressing in, the cheap plastic chairs outside scraping against the floor every time some cop shifted his weight — but Jess couldn’t feel any of it.
Couldn’t feel anything except the way her pinky brushed against his like it belonged there.
Except the way her knee bumped into his when she shifted slightly, lazy and warm and thoughtless in that way you could only be with someone who knew you down to the bone.

She looked like chaos incarnate—hair a mess, knees scraped, slushie stains drying down the side of her shorts—and Jess swore he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, slow and shaky, his head tipping sideways until it bumped lightly against hers.
No fanfare. No jokes. Just contact.

The kind that said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Sam didn’t open her eyes, but Jess caught the ghost of a smile twitching across her lips. Like she felt it too. Like she knew.

“Totally worth it,” she whispered again, barely audible this time, like a secret meant just for the space between them.

Jess closed his eyes too, letting the quiet wrap around him, letting it settle into his skin.
For once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with some dumb wisecrack.
Didn’t need to pull a face, didn’t need to lighten it, didn’t need to do anything except feel it.

Them.

Here.
Alive.
Messy and loud and a little bloody and absolutely together.

After a minute, he shifted just enough to murmur against the side of her hair:

“Reckon they should give us a medal for services to chaos.”

Sam snorted without opening her eyes, that sleepy, wrecked little laugh that hit Jess like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“And a free slushie for life,” she mumbled back, voice thick with exhaustion and victory.

Jess huffed a soft laugh, resting the side of his head against the wall again, her hand still caught securely in his, thumb brushing lazy circles over her knuckles.

The weight of the night pressed down on him—the noise, the heat, the bone-deep exhaustion—but underneath it, quieter and stronger, was something steadier:

He wasn’t scared.
Not of this.
Not of her.
Not even of the way she’d cracked him wide open without even trying.

Because this?
This wasn’t the part you ran from.
This was the part you held onto.

He cracked one eye open, turning his head to look at her again.

Sam, bruised and sweaty and smiling like she’d conquered a kingdom made of streetlights and plastic swords.
Sam, sitting there like she hadn’t just wrecked him completely and didn’t even know it.

Jess squeezed her hand again, harder this time, dragging her out of whatever half-doze she was sinking into.

When she blinked up at him, sleepy and sharp all at once, he didn’t give her a chance to say anything.

“You’re my favorite felony,” he said quietly, grinning that slow, stupid, wrecked grin he only ever pulled out when it was just her and the whole world falling away.

Sam barked out a laugh—sharp and bright and achingly real—and Jess thought:

Yeah.
Let them lock us up.
Let them try to cage this.

They weren’t criminals.
They were a goddamn revolution.

And as long as she was sitting beside him—bloody-kneed, neon-streaked, laughing like the sky might fall in and she wouldn’t give a damn—Jess Montgomery knew he’d never need anything else.

Not freedom.
Not forgiveness.
Not even a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Just her.

Always, just her.

Sam snorted so hard it echoed off the cinderblock walls, flopping dramatically sideways until her head thudded against Jess’s shoulder with zero grace and zero apology.

“Favorite felony?” she crowed, loud enough that the exhausted desk cop outside their cell sighed audibly. “God, you’re so sappy. You’re like—like a criminal Hallmark card.”

She twisted her neck to look up at him—still pressed against his side, her slushie-sticky legs stretched out like she owned the entire ugly little room—and flashed him the world’s biggest, most dangerously mischievous grin.

“You know that, right?” she jabbed, poking his ribs with her finger, sharp and familiar and full of something so much bigger than the words she was pretending to mock him with.
“You’re a menace. A criminal romantic. If you had a rap sheet, it would just say ‘Excessive Feelings in a Public Place.’”

She poked him again, harder this time, just because she could.
Just because she needed to.
Because if she didn’t—if she let herself sit too still in this heavy, golden ache between them—she was pretty sure she’d combust.

“And you’re lucky, Montgomery,” she added, slouching lower until she could half-drape herself across his lap like a living, breathing misdemeanor.
“Because if anyone else said that kinda shit to me, I’d use the sword.”

She tossed her arm out dramatically, pointing toward the plastic sword still lying abandoned on the officer’s desk like it was waiting for the next chapter of their reign of terror.

"But you?" she smirked, voice softening just slightly, just enough that he’d hear it if he was listening close—
"I guess you get the full 'sappy felony' discount package."

No blinking.
No running.
No jokes big enough to cover it.

Just Sam, curled up beside him in a dingy holding cell, pretending to tease him while actually handing over the kind of loyalty people spent lifetimes begging for.

The silence stretched for half a beat, thick and humming, and Sam—true to form—cracked it wide open before it could get too heavy.

"Alright," she announced loudly, kicking his shin again because apparently she didn’t know how to be gentle, "we’re not just gonna sit here being tragic lovers and sappy felons all night."

She shoved herself upright with a grunt, hair sticking in every direction, bracelets clinking against her wrist as she smacked her palms against her thighs like she was rallying troops.

"Game time, lover boy."

Jess lifted an eyebrow, amused and wrecked in equal measure, but Sam barreled on like a train with no brakes.

"Twenty-one Questions. Loser has to... I dunno... propose fake marriage to the first tourist they see when we get outta here."

She pointed a warning finger at him, all fierce fake-seriousness.
"No backing out. No playing nice. Full gremlin energy, or it doesn’t count."

Sam reached over, grabbed his wrist like it was a challenge, and plopped his hand into her lap with finality, grinning like she’d just signed a war treaty.

“Ready, Montgomery?” she said, wiggling her eyebrows, already practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Because your first question is about to emotionally destroy you.”

She didn’t wait.
Didn’t give him a second to brace.

She leaned in close—dangerous, sun-bright, alive—and fired the first shot:

“If you could only keep one thing from tonight—one moment, one dumbass thing we did—what would you pick?”

And the way she looked at him, all sharp teeth and soft heart wrapped in salt air and slushie stains—
there was no mistaking it:

She was still sappy too.
She just delivered it like a punchline you never saw coming.

Jess nearly choked when Sam flopped against his shoulder like a dying fish, no warning, no apology, just bam—head, ribs, sticky limbs, chaos incarnate.

The snort that tore out of her echoed off the grimy cinderblock walls like they were in some busted-up cathedral of poor life choices.

Jess tipped his head toward hers, lips twitching, body humming from the leftover wreckage of their night.

When she jabbed him in the ribs, accusing him of being a “criminal Hallmark card,” Jess let out a low, breathless laugh, voice wrecked from singing and shouting and feeling too much.

“Not my fault you kidnapped a guy with a heart condition,” he muttered, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closing for a beat. “You knew the risks.”

She poked him again, harder, and Jess flinched with exaggerated dramatics, grabbing his side like she’d stabbed him through with a sword instead of her finger.

He cracked one eye open, caught the way she sprawled even further across his lap, like she was claiming the whole damn room by proxy.

“You’re the real menace here,” Jess said, voice low, lazy, teasing at the edges of something heavier he didn’t dare look too hard at. “Accessory to bad ideas. First-degree adorable assault.”

When she pointed toward the abandoned sword and told him he was lucky, Jess just smirked—slow, crooked, full of wrecked worship he didn’t even try to hide anymore.

“Yeah, well…” he murmured, thumb lazily brushing a circle against the side of her knee, “you’re stuck with me now, Carroll. No takebacks.”

He meant it.
All the way down.

When she declared it “game time,” practically bouncing upright with that feral gleam in her eye, Jess leaned back to watch her rally herself—hair everywhere, bracelets clinking, knees scuffed, grin dangerous.

God, she was a masterpiece.

He raised an eyebrow, trying for unimpressed and landing somewhere around completely fucking enchanted.

“Twenty-One Questions, huh?” he drawled, voice sandpaper-rough from laughing too hard. “Loser proposes marriage to a tourist? Bold strategy, Carroll. Hope you’re ready to be Mrs. Weird Guy from Idaho.”

She grabbed his wrist and dropped it into her lap like she was planting a flag, and Jess didn’t even resist. Wouldn’t have even if he could.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, trouble,” he said, grin tugging wider across his mouth, heart hammering way too loud for how casual he was pretending to be.

And then she hit him with it.
No warning.
No mercy.

“If you could only keep one thing from tonight—one moment, one dumbass thing we did—what would you pick?”

Jess’s breath caught halfway between his lungs and his ribs.

The plastic chairs.
The fluorescent hum.
The scrape on his elbow.
All of it blurred out around the edges, leaving just her.
Just the weight of her question and the way she was looking at him, like maybe the answer mattered more than either of them were ready to admit.

Jess let the silence stretch for a beat, long enough to taste the weight of it.

Then he leaned in a little closer, voice quieter now, rougher, meant only for her.

“Easy,” he said, eyes steady on hers.
“The second you looked at me across that busted-ass karaoke stage like we were the only two idiots left in the world.”

He smiled—small, real, wrecked.

“Could’ve dropped the sword right then. Would’ve still followed you anywhere.”

And he meant it.
Meant every goddamn word like it was carved into his bones.

For a second—
just a second—Sam couldn’t breathe.

Because Jess said it so easy.
Like it wasn’t a grenade he was handing her.
Like it wasn’t the kind of thing that should’ve knocked her flat if she weren’t already sitting.

The way he looked at her—wrecked and sure and hers—made something sharp and stupid catch in her chest.
Made her feel like maybe she was standing still for the first time in her entire messy, unhinged life.

Sam blinked fast, trying to shake it off, but her eyes went soft anyway—traitorous, dangerous, too much.

Before she could think better of it, before she could shove it down like she normally would, she leaned in quick and pressed a kiss to his jaw.
Not playful.
Not performative.
Just a quick, real thing—warm and sure and anchoring.

She pulled back just as fast, thumping her forehead against his shoulder in fake exhaustion like she couldn’t stand the weight of how hard he was wrecking her.

“Nice try, Romeo,” she muttered against his T-shirt, her voice a little too thick, a little too real. “But you’re not distracting me from total victory with flattery.”

She sat up, shaking her hair out of her face, trying to wrangle back her chaos before he could see too much.
Before she got stupid enough to say something sappy right back.

Sam snapped her fingers dramatically, grinning so hard it hurt, and declared, “My favorite part of the night? Easy. When you tripped over the cone during our high-speed joust and faceplanted like a newborn giraffe.”

She pointed at him with gleeful precision, like she was scoring a fatal blow.
“Five stars. Instant replay worthy. Changed my life, honestly.”

Jess just huffed out a broken laugh beside her, head dropping back against the wall with a thunk like he knew she was full of shit and loved her anyway.

Sam smirked, crossing her arms triumphantly across her chest, booted foot nudging his shin again just to drive the point home.

“Negative points for emotional sabotage,” she announced, voice loud and full of mock righteousness. “I’m in the lead now, Montgomery.”

She slouched back against the wall, all smug satisfaction, and jerked her chin toward him like a dare.

“Your turn, lover boy. Better make it count. Redemption's a hell of a climb.”

But even as she said it—cocky and chaotic and dripping mischief—
she couldn’t quite wipe the glow out of her chest.
Couldn’t erase the truth she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet:

She would've kept the same moment too.

Jess felt it hit—sharp and fast—the second her mouth brushed the side of his jaw.

Not playful.
Not staged.
Real.

It burned through him, low and certain, anchoring itself somewhere deep where words couldn’t touch.
Where jokes couldn’t reach.

She pulled back too quick, forehead thudding against his shoulder like she was trying to knock the feeling out of herself, but Jess didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just sat there, letting the weight of it settle between them—heavy, golden, good.

When she muttered into his shirt about “total victory” and “not getting distracted by flattery,” Jess smirked, eyes closing for half a second because if he looked at her right now—if he really looked—he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

Then she shot upright again, snapping her fingers like some chaotic little war general rallying the troops, and Jess cracked his eyes open just in time to catch her wild grin cutting through the grime of the room like sunlight through a busted window.

She crowned her favorite moment—the cone joust disaster, of course she did—with all the gleeful ruthlessness he’d fallen headfirst for a hundred times over.

Jess let his head thunk back against the wall when she called him a “newborn giraffe,” laughing low and broken and not even pretending to fight her anymore.

When she booted him in the shin again—victorious, smug, hers—Jess let out a long, theatrical sigh and dragged a hand down his face like he was a man enduring great suffering.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, voice shredded with affection and wreckage, “you win that round, chaos queen.”

He cracked a grin sideways at her, slow and dangerous, like he wasn’t done yet.
Not even close.

She slouched back, triumphant, jerking her chin at him like a challenge, and Jess turned his whole body toward her, one knee bumping against hers, one elbow slinging lazy across his own bent leg.

His heart was hammering so hard he was pretty sure the whole cell could hear it.

“You want a real one?” he said, voice dipping low, a little rougher now. “No dumb answers. No fake-outs.”

He leaned in closer, shadows cutting sharp across his cheekbones, that smirk turning softer at the edges, more dangerous.

“You wanna know my next pick?”

Jess paused—long enough to make her shift, long enough to make her grin twitch into something almost nervous—and then said, quieter:

“Right now.”

He let it hang there between them, thick and buzzing, the air charged and electric.

Jess tipped his head until his forehead bumped lightly against hers, not hard, not joking—anchoring.

“Me,” he murmured, voice so low it barely made it into the space between them.
“You. This.”

His hand slid down, slow and certain, fingers brushing hers again where they rested between them like something inevitable.

“Could’ve kept every cone joust, every bad song, every fake-knight ceremony,” he whispered. “Still would’ve picked this.”

He pulled back just enough to see her eyes, wide and a little stunned and stupidly beautiful, and grinned—wrecked and soft and so fucking sure it made his ribs ache.

“Don’t need the chaos to know I already won.”

He nudged her knee with his, lazy and reckless and hers.

“Your move, Carroll,” Jess said, voice warm and wicked, thumb still tracing circles against her knuckles like he had no plans of letting go.

“Better bring backup.”

Because Jess Montgomery wasn’t surrendering.
Not tonight.
Not to anyone.
And definitely not to the girl who already owned every goddamn part of him.

Sam cracked one eye open when he leaned in all slow and serious, forehead brushing hers again like they were the only two idiots left in the whole sweaty, salty universe.
She felt it—God, she felt it—the way his voice dipped low, the way his thumb moved lazy against her skin like he could anchor her there forever if she let him.

And for a beat—one beat—she thought about letting him.
About falling headfirst into the wreckage he was offering.

But then he had to go and say it.
All slow and soft and stupidly sincere.

Me. You. This.

Sam snorted so loud it rattled the bars.
Because obviously.
Because of course.

She thumped her forehead lightly against his, grinning even as her chest squeezed too tight.

"Babe," she drawled, half-laughing, half-wrecked, "we're in a jail cell."

She pulled back just enough to see him grin that lazy, wrecked, heart-wrecking grin at her—and it almost got her, almost cracked her straight down the middle—
but no.

No way was Jess Montgomery getting away with weaponized feelings when she was trying to win.

Sam wiggled her fingers dramatically in their tangled hands, shifting to cuddle closer into his side like gravity itself was pulling her there.
Her head tucked under his chin like it was the most natural thing in the world—because it was.
Because she could make jokes and deflect and be a gremlin about it all night, but the truth was simple:

She loved him so much it scared her sometimes.

Didn’t mean she was gonna let him win, though.

She poked him again in the ribs with her free hand, all sharp elbows and dangerous grins.

"Nice try, Montgomery," she chirped. "But you’re abusing the sacred laws of 21 Questions. That’s an automatic five-point deduction."

She leaned back just enough to smirk up at him, smug and victorious and still wrapped up against his side like a barnacle that swore she was independent.

"Reminder," she added, counting off on her fingers like she was explaining it to a particularly stubborn kindergartener, "the rules are: real answers, actual effort, no weaponized sap unless cleared beforehand."

She bumped her nose lightly against his jaw just to be a little shit and grinned bigger when he tilted his head slightly, chasing the contact even though she was absolutely antagonizing him.

"You wanna win?" she teased, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper like she was sharing state secrets, "you’re gonna have to work harder than whispering poetry at me in a concrete box, lover boy."

She tapped the side of his knee once, sharp and light.

"Since you wasted your turn feeding me Hallmark goo," she said breezily, settling herself deeper into his side like a victory lap, "I get to ask again."

Sam stretched her legs out in front of her, toes knocking lightly against the metal bars, and let the moment stretch, pretending she was pondering something profound.

Then, with all the chaotic wickedness she could summon, she fired:

"Alright, hotshot," she said, tilting her head up to catch his eye, all glint and trouble and affection so big it barely fit inside her ribcage,
"Worst pickup line you’ve ever used—and you have to deliver it like you mean it. Full commitment. Or double point deduction."

She grinned wider, heart pounding against his side, drunk on slushie sugar and bad decisions and the way he was looking at her like she was both the storm and the damn sun.

Game on.

Jess was wrecked.

Absolutely, categorically, no-recovery, call-the-coroner wrecked.

Sam tucked herself under his chin like it was the most natural thing in the world—like they hadn’t just been kicked out of two bars, knighted a sad boy, jousted with a traffic cone, and landed themselves in a holding cell sticky with slushie residue and streetlight sweat—and Jess felt his whole chest crack under the weight of it.

She chirped something about five-point deductions, rules he was apparently breaking by existing, poking him again like she thought she could play it off—like she wasn’t already folded against him like they’d been built to fit.

Jess let out a breathless, broken laugh, ducking his head lower so his mouth brushed the top of her hair, breathing her in.
Sticky-sweet.
Sunburnt-salty.
Wild and bright and fucking his life up in the best possible way.

And then she hit him with it.
Another question.
No mercy.

“Worst pickup line you’ve ever used,” she demanded, practically glowing with mischief. “Full commitment. No slacking.”

Jess groaned dramatically, thumping the back of his head against the wall once, twice, like he was in pain.

“You’re gonna make me embarrass myself in front of Officer Buzzkill out there,” he muttered, tilting his head sideways to shoot her a mock glare, all crooked grin and wrecked-boy softness.

But she was already grinning at him like the cat who got the whole damn dairy farm, and Jess wasn’t about to back down now.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, ankle knocking lightly against hers, and shifted just enough so he could look her dead in the eye—serious, devastating, like he was about to propose marriage or rob a bank or both.

Jess reached out, tangled their fingers again, and squeezed once—playful but sure—before laying it on thick, dropping his voice to a low, exaggerated drawl that was half fake-sultry, half shit-eating grin.

“Are you a parking ticket, Carroll?” he purred, thumb brushing lazy against the back of her hand.

“Because you got ‘FINE’ written all over you.”

He winked, slow and obnoxious, like he had just delivered Shakespearean-level romance instead of the worst pickup line known to mankind.

Then, because he was Jess Montgomery and he didn’t know how to leave well enough alone, he leaned in even closer, brushing his nose lightly against hers, voice dropping until it was barely a wrecked whisper:

“And for the record?
I’d still use it.
Every time.
If it meant ending up right here.”

He bumped his forehead against hers again, soft, sure, reckless.

“Double point deduction, my ass,” Jess muttered, grinning like a man who’d already decided the scoreboard didn’t matter.

“Pretty sure I just won the whole damn game.”

And he meant it.
Every dumb, slushie-sticky, jail-cell heartbeat of it.

Sam tried—God, she tried—to keep a straight face.
But the second Jess leaned in, tangled their fingers tighter, brushed his nose against hers like they weren’t sitting in a grimy holding cell in yesterday’s clothes, and delivered that wreck of a pickup line with all the fake swagger of a sunburnt pirate—

It cracked something wide open inside her.

Because yeah, the line was stupid.
So stupid.
Painfully stupid.

But the way he said it—wrecked and soft and sure—like he meant every terrible word of it?
That hit differently.
That hit like a damn tidal wave.

Sam blinked up at him, heart thudding against her ribs, feeling every place they touched like a bruise she didn’t want to heal.

And when he murmured that last part—
“If it meant ending up right here.”

Yeah.

That was the part that got her.
That was the part that melted her like a popsicle on the sidewalk.

For a second—just a second—she almost gave in.
Almost threw the whole stupid game out the window and told him he was her favorite love story, too.
That he’d been her favorite before either of them even knew what that meant.

Instead—

Sam huffed a breath, loud and dramatic, shoving lightly at his chest with the hand not tangled in his.

"God, Montgomery," she groaned, dropping her forehead against his shoulder like he was personally responsible for her entire emotional downfall. "You’re gonna make me throw up in the most romantic way possible."

She let herself sit there for a second longer than necessary, breathing him in, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her temple like a secret only she knew.

Then she leaned back, poking him hard in the ribs—again—because chaos was her love language and vulnerability scared the hell out of her.

"Fine," she muttered, rolling her eyes in the most dramatic way possible, even though her mouth was betraying her with the start of a smile, "I'll show mercy."

She held up two fingers, wagging them between them like a ref at a beachside wrestling match.

"Minus two deductions. You’re technically back to zero."

Sam grinned wider when Jess gave her a smug, wrecked look like he was already claiming victory, and she shook her head, ponytail flipping over her shoulder.

"Don’t get cocky, lover boy," she warned, cuddling right back into his side like she hadn’t just threatened him. "This game’s still rigged as hell and I fully plan on winning."

Because of course she did.
Because it wasn’t about the points.
It was about the them of it all.
The way he let her rig the rules and still showed up ready to lose if it meant making her laugh.

Sam wiggled a little closer, legs sprawled out in front of them like she owned the whole damn floor, and launched straight into her next question without giving him a chance to breathe:

"Alright," she said, nudging her knee into his like a jab, voice sweet and dangerous,
"If you had to get a tattoo tonight—right now, no thinking—what would it be?"

She grinned, shark-bright and waiting for the kill.

"And," she added with a smirk, "bonus points if it’s somewhere you’d regret tomorrow."

The fluorescent lights buzzed above them.
The world outside the cell kept moving.
But inside?

Inside it was just Sam and Jess.
A kingdom made of bad jokes, stolen kisses, and rigged games no one else got to play.