{{user}} knew exactly what they were doing.

That was the worst part.

Jason opened the door with aching feet and a dull, hopeful ache that never went away. {{user}} stepped inside like they owned the place—like they hadn’t shattered him here a dozen times before. Their back was tense, shoulders drawn tight, eyes restless. Always running. Always coming back.

“You look exhausted,” Jason said.

{{user}} smiled, small and forced. “So do you.”

They drank because it was easier than honesty. Bottles emptied, grief set aside like something they could pick back up later. Jason sat close, too close, the way someone does when they’re afraid of distance. {{user}} let it happen. {{user}} always let it happen.

They knew Jason loved them. Knew it in the way his hands hovered before touching, in the way he watched their mouth when they spoke, in the way he never asked for more because he was terrified of losing what little he got.

{{user}} leaned in first.

It wasn’t romance. It was hunger. A familiar collision of bodies that filled the hole {{user}} carried around—the one no one else fit quite right. Jason fit because he always did. Because he’d bend himself into whatever shape {{user}} needed.

After, {{user}} lay against him, breath warm, weight settling in like borrowed peace. Jason wrapped his arms around them instinctively, heart pounding like this meant something permanent. His feet ached. His chest hurt worse.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” {{user}} reminded quietly, not unkindly.

Jason nodded. He always nodded.

{{user}} said it because they were scared—of staying, of choosing, of being known past the dark. It was easier to take Jason’s love in pieces. Easier to sleep beside him than to stand beside him.

Jason lay there anyway, staring into the ceiling while the world caved in slowly inside his ribs. He loved {{user}} so much it felt terminal. And {{user}} knew it. Used it. Needed it.

When {{user}} finally slept, unburdened, Jason stayed awake, holding them like a promise he’d made alone.

In the morning, {{user}} would leave without a word, lighter than they arrived.

Jason would let them.

He always did.

Because even being used by {{user}} felt better than the end of the world without them.