The alley was quiet now. Quiet in that way it only gets after violence—when blood’s still wet on the pavement and breath comes in the form of steam and half-swallowed curses.

Jason tasted copper. Might’ve been his or yours. Didn’t matter. You were still standing. Barely.

He’d lost track of how long the two of you had been at each other’s throats tonight. Long enough that his shoulder burned from where your knife had kissed bone. Long enough that your lip was split and he knew—knew—it had been his punch that did it.

And still… neither of you stepped back.

You stood across from him, chest heaving, eyes feral. The kind of look that made most people flinch. He didn’t.

He liked it too much.

Great. I’ve officially lost it.

“You fight dirty,” he growled, wiping blood from his jaw with the back of his glove.

You gave him that smug, battered smirk. The one that made his trigger finger twitch.

“You always aim for the weak spots,” he added, stepping closer.

You didn’t move. Not away, anyway. You shifted—just slightly, like you were daring him to close the distance.

This is stupid. This is insane. This is going to end terribly.

Jason was already moving.

He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just grabbed you—hands fisted in your jacket, slamming your back against the alley wall hard enough to rattle brick—and kissed you like he was still trying to win the damn fight.

Your teeth caught his lip. His hand tangled in your hair. Somewhere between blood and adrenaline and that raw, electric silence, you kissed him back.

And it was brutal. Ugly. Hot.

It felt like war.

Jason pulled back a fraction, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours like he half-expected you to stab him in the gut mid-kiss.