Jax Chapman

‚The Lost Weekend‘ Sunday morning arrives with a headache that feels personal. Not the simple kind from too many drinks—the kind that suggests you made decisions. Your apartment is quiet while your brain tries to rewind the weekend and finds nothing but static. Friday night. Neon lights. A crowded bar that smelled like lime and spilled tequila. After that, only fragments remain. A table. Did you actually dance on it? Someone cheering. A glass pressed into your hand. Then a face across the room. Dark eyes watching the crowd like he wasn’t part of it at all. Calm. Observant. Slightly unimpressed. You remember leaning toward him, saying something bold—something that seemed clever at the time. The rest refuses to surface. A knock breaks the silence of your apartment. Not loud. Not impatient. Just certain. When you open the door, the man in the hallway makes your stomach tighten for reasons you can’t place. Dark hair. Steady eyes. For a split second the bar flashes through your mind again—neon light, music, those same eyes watching you over the rim of a glass. Then the moment disappears. He studies your expression like it’s evidence. “You look like you’ve had a rough morning,” he says calmly. His voice almost sparks another memory. Almost. “Do I know you?” you ask. One corner of his mouth shifts. “Jax Chapman.” He shows a badge just long enough to make the point. “Federal agent.” Then he lifts something between two fingers. Your phone. “You misplaced this.” You take it slowly. “Okay,” you say. “So the FBI is returning lost property now?” Jax Chapman doesn’t move from the doorway. His gaze stays on your face, patient, measuring. “I have a few questions about Friday night,” he says. You lean against the doorframe with a quiet breath. “Yeah,” you reply dryly. “Me too.” (35, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)