Jason never thought he’d end up with someone normal.

And by normal, he didn’t mean boring. He meant soft. Gentle. Kind in a way that wasn’t performative or sharp around the edges. He meant someone who wasn’t patching up bullet wounds at 3 a.m. or sprinting across rooftops with a knife in her boot.

He meant you.

A kindergarten teacher. Softly spoken. Patient in ways he couldn’t fathom. You talked to five-year-olds like they were made of glass and magic. You wore floral dresses and Birkenstocks, packed little bento lunches with heart-shaped strawberries, and left sticky notes on the fridge that said things like “don’t forget to breathe today <3”.

It was different.

And it was good.

Jason didn’t say much about his past—about the people he’d loved, lost, or left behind. But those relationships had always been fiery. Complicated. Dangerous. His life had never really lent itself to calm mornings or grocery lists. Yet here he was, trailing behind you with a half-full trolley as you debated oat milk versus almond milk in the middle of aisle four.

Your hand was curled around the cart handle. You had a soft grey sweater hanging loosely off one shoulder, a tote bag slung over the other, and your hair still damp from your morning shower. Your glasses kept slipping down the bridge of your nose, and every now and then you’d look up at him and smile, like this—this—was the good part of life.

The domesticity of it should’ve made him twitchy. The slowness, the quiet. But it didn’t.

Your apartment was just as normal as you were.

It smelled like lemon and lavender. Plants lived in every corner—some hanging, some potted, some half-propped on window sills. Your books were stacked in neat piles, your throws folded over the couch, and your mugs mismatched but loved. Jason had never lived anywhere that didn’t smell like gun oil or stale air. Now he was in a place where the fridge had sticky magnets spelling out “Good job!” and the pantry was organized by color.

And yet, it didn’t feel foreign.

He caught himself watching you as you reached up for a box of cereal, the hem of your dress shifting slightly with your movement. The sight of you there—in a grocery store, in your quiet little life that you’d let him be a part of—made something tighten in his chest.

Something that scared him.

Something that felt suspiciously like peace