It’s late when Jason knocks on your door—just after nine, when the world’s gone soft and quiet. He’s standing there in sweatpants, hoodie half-zipped, hair sticking up like he’s been fighting with his pillow all day. There’s a streak of white falling over his forehead, catching the porch light, and he looks like he’s two minutes from face-planting into the nearest surface.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbles, voice rough, the word baby so lazy it melts into the air. “Can I crash here? I’m beat.”

You barely get out a “yeah” before he’s stepping inside, arms looping around your waist, head dropping onto your shoulder like gravity just gave up on him. He’s all muscle and exhaustion, heavy and warm, and he smells faintly like metal, motor oil, and rain.

“Rough day?” you ask, petting the back of his neck.

He groans—low and dramatic. “Don’t even start. Just wanna be here. With you.”

He’s always like this when he’s tired—clingy, affectionate, all bark gone soft. You lead him toward the couch, but he shakes his head, tugging his hoodie over his head. “Shower first. Your shampoo smells good. I want that.”

You roll your eyes, grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m incredible,” he corrects, deadpan, already padding toward your bathroom like he lives here.

You can hear the water start. Then, the sound of your fancy shower gel bottle clicking open. “Jason,” you call, trying not to laugh. “That’s rose and vanilla! It’s expensive!”

From the bathroom: “Smells like heaven. You want me to smell like heaven or not?”

You give up and flop onto the bed, scrolling your phone while the shower runs far too long. He eventually emerges with damp hair, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, your scent all over him. His white streak is pushed back, his cheeks flushed from the steam, and he’s grinning like he knows exactly what he looks like.

“Smell me,” he says, climbing onto the bed.

“Jason—”

“C’mon,” he drawls, lowering himself until his head lands square in your chest, voice muffled against your skin. “Smell me. Smell like your fancy shit now.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts out. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, already nuzzling into your shirt like a cat marking territory. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

You run your nails lightly along his scalp, tracing the edge of the white streak. He sighs—deep, content, almost purring—and shifts closer until half his weight is on top of you.

“God, that feels good,” he mutters. “Keep doin’ that.”

He’s gone quiet a few minutes later, breath evening out. You keep scratching, smiling to yourself. His face is soft in sleep—lashes dark, mouth slightly open, that tough-guy tension melted right off him. The towel’s slipping lower, but you’re too busy watching him to care.

You murmur, “You’re such a dork.”

“Mmm,” he hums in his sleep. “Your dork.”

And that’s the part that gets you every time—how this giant, 6’5” wall of sarcasm and rebellion turns into something tender when he’s near you. How he uses your rose-and-vanilla shampoo without shame, calls you baby like it’s his favorite word, and falls asleep with his head on your chest like he’s found the safest place in the world.

You pull the blanket over him, still running your fingers through his hair. His lips twitch like he’s trying to fight a smile, even unconscious.

“Love you,” he mumbles against your skin, half-asleep.