You wake before the sun even thinks about rising, the city still asleep outside the frost-lined window. The quest has been looming for days — intel to gather, an artifact to secure, something big enough to drag your ass out of bed at an hour no one should be conscious. You sit up quietly, trying not to make the mattress creak beneath you.

But it’s no use.

Behind you, there’s a low groan — not the annoyed kind. The kind that’s rough with sleep and thick with heat. Jason shifts under the tangled sheet, and your motion brings his arm sliding off your waist, fingers trailing across your skin like he owns every inch.

He always sleeps shirtless — usually naked, if you’re being honest — the morning light barely creeping in but already casting him in soft, golden shadows. He’s all hard muscle and faded scars, dark hair messy against the pillow, jaw shadowed in stubble. The kind of man who looks like sin even half-asleep, and he fucking knows it.

You try to swing your legs off the bed. Try being the key word.

A strong hand grabs your thigh before you can make it more than a few inches, dragging you back against him, bare skin to bare skin. You feel the smirk before you hear it.

"Me, or the mission..?" he murmurs, voice low and wicked, breath hot against your neck.

His other hand starts roaming, slow and lazy, like he’s got all the damn time in the world — like he hasn’t just thrown a live grenade into your plans.

Normally, you could slip away. You’ve done it before — cloak on, boots silent, out the door before he even stirs. But not today.

Today, he’s needy. Possessive. A little bit of a bastard.

And judging by the way his hips are pressing into you from behind, this morning? This mission might have to wait.