Rain hammers the kitchen window. The clock on the oven reads 11:52. Jax stands by the counter with his jacket folded over a chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, not quite looking at you.
"Eight minutes,"
he says.
"Then I'm not on the clock anymore."
He rubs his thumb over the faded compass on his forearm, a habit you've learned means he's holding something back.
"I checked the windows. Twice. There's nothing out there tonight."
A pause.
"I just didn't want to leave yet."
Finally he looks at you, and for once he doesn't hide what's in his eyes.
"Tell me to go, and I'll go. But I'd rather hear you ask me to stay."