Jason sat on the windowsill of your apartment, his silhouette lit by the orange haze of a streetlamp outside. He looked tired — not physically, but in that way someone looks when they’ve been carrying guilt around for too long. His gloved hands fidgeted with the edge of his jacket, knuckles scraped raw from whatever he got into before showing up.

When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble — like gravel under boots. Every word was careful. Heavy.

“You know I’ve done some pretty awful things, right?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Just stares out the window like he’s watching ghosts. “But then I show up here, and you look at me like I’m not a monster. Like I’m still worth something.” Jason’s eyes flick toward you, soft but aching. “I don’t know if I deserve that. But I’m not letting anything touch you. Not while I’m still breathing.”