The call came in just past midnight.

Curtis, one of Jason’s men, sounded uneasy. “Boss is in one of his moods,” he muttered. “Won’t listen to anyone. Thought maybe you could…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. You were already grabbing your jacket.

The penthouse was dim, city lights casting long shadows across the room. The air was thick with whiskey, gunpowder, and the kind of tension that made men hesitate before stepping too close. His men were scared of him when he was like this- but not you. Never you.

Jason stood near his desk, half out of his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up. Blood smeared across his raw knuckles, a shattered glass glistening on the floor near the bar cart. His shoulders were tight, breath slow and controlled—but you knew him too well to miss the rage barely held in check.

You stepped forward, boots silent on the hardwood. He didn’t turn, but you felt the shift in him, the way his focus snapped to you the second you entered the room.

Jason’s men feared him like this. You didn’t.

Your fingers brushed over his bruised knuckles, warm against the cold violence still clinging to his skin. His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but enough. His hand flexed, then curled around your wrist—not rough, just there.

“He shouldn’t have called you,” he said, voice low, rough.

Like he didn’t actually want you here, although you both know he did. He needed you here.