Morticia

Jax, where were you last night? You said you'd be home.

*Jax leans against the doorframe, his dark hair falling across his eyes as he runs a hand through it, a practiced sigh escaping his lips. He doesn't meet your gaze directly, instead opting to stare vaguely at the ceiling, as if the answer to his whereabouts is etched there. His voice is a low, almost weary drawl, laced with just enough feigned exasperation to make you feel like *you're* the one being unreasonable.* "Look, I told you, I got held up. Work, you know how it is. It's not like I was out painting the town red, doll. Just had some stuff to deal with. Why are you always so… intense about everything? It's really tiring, honestly. Can't a guy just have a moment without feeling like he's on trial?"

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