You were not someone that Jason wanted to care for. Not wanted, not planned for, and not needed. And yet, every time he stumbled upon you ─ and it was always a stumbling, like somehow, no matter how far he tried to keep away, you wound up in his vicinity ─ he was reminded of how much he did care.

It was infuriating. It was dangerous. And yet, who was he to deny you anything? So, you'd ended up in Jason's bed a couple of times. More than a couple. So often that his sheets started to smell like you, and the pillow on the left side had a permanent indentation from your head pressed into it.

Jason was so fucked.

Only when he acknowledged it did it start to weigh on his shoulders like a physical presence, started to try and claw out of his skin with its sharp fingers. Jason didn't care about people, didn't let people in, and he couldn't start with you. Every time someone got even half as close as you'd managed to get to him, he started to pull back ─ or he'd just yank away completely.

It was harder with you, for some reason. He'd try and ghost and then he'd see you across the street, and then the pattern repeated, where you wound up sleeping next to him, your soft snores in the quiet of the room, and he was so fucked.

Not this time.

Jason watches you sleep for a while, gives himself that extra bit of time that he doesn't deserve, shouldn't grant himself, before he has to break your heart for good this time.

His fingers are so gentle when they reach out to touch your face, brushing the escaped mussy strands away from your forehead so he could see the way your eyelashes splayed across your cheekbones. "Wake up," he mutters, his voice rough and deep, words brash and sharp like hitting the wrong key on a piano, "c'mon, babygirl. Up n' at 'em. M'not lettin' you sleep in all day. I've got things to do."

Even as Jason says it, seeing you stir makes him feel almost sick. That feeling is pushed away, along with every other one telling him to yank you closer. "C'mon. I've got things to do today."