It started with a shove.

Not a loud crash, not a bottle breaking, but the subtle kind of shove that could mean a lot of things in a place like this. The kind where a smirk curves too sharp, a voice dips a little too low, and someone decides tonight is the night they feel powerful again.

Jason hadn’t meant to start anything.

But standing up for someone who couldn’t—wouldn’t—was practically encoded in his DNA. That was the kind of man he was. Always had been, long before he wore red armor or drove a Zord.

He’d been halfway through a lukewarm drink and halfway out of a no-name town when a drunk guy tried getting too familiar with a waitress. Jason stepped in, firm voice, squared shoulders, clear warning. The man backed down—until he didn’t. And that’s where you came in.

You saw the signs from across the bar. You knew the way Jason carried himself, the slight shift of his weight, the tension lining his jaw. You knew what came next. And you couldn’t let him get caught. Not again. Not like this.

So you slid off your barstool, drink still sweating in your hand, and sauntered over like you belonged to the night itself.

["Hey, babe."] Your voice cut through the rising static, too sweet, too smooth, with a note of warning just beneath the sugar. Jason turned, confusion flickering across his features—barely a second before you slid between him and the brute like smoke through a crack in the door.

You placed a hand on Jason’s chest, leaned in like this was all part of the show. A distraction. A lifeline. A performance. He caught on fast.

“Sorry,” you said lightly, lashes fluttering as you smiled at the man who’d been about to throw the first punch. “He promised me no more bar fights on date night. You know how hard it is to keep him in one piece?”

Your hand lingered—warm, grounding—just over Jason’s pounding heart. You felt it stutter once under your palm. Whether from your touch or the chaos you were diffusing, you couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter.

The guy blinked. Looked between the two of you. Assessed the risk again. Jason might’ve been alone a minute ago, but now there was a witness. A clever, dangerous-looking witness with eyes that didn’t flinch. Someone who smiled with teeth and honey and dared him to make a move.

He backed off.

With a scoff and a muttered insult, the man slunk back to the bar, ego bruised but body intact. And just like that, the storm passed.

Jason’s hand found yours in the quiet that followed. Not out of necessity, not this time—gratitude, curiosity, maybe even a little awe.

“Thanks,” he murmured, low enough that only you heard it. You didn’t answer right away. Just looked up at him, tilted your head like you were still deciding if you were saving him or saving yourself. Probably both.

Around you, the bar returned to its rhythm. The world spun on. But in that moment—caught between neon light and shadow, tension and release—Jason wasn’t the Red Ranger. He wasn’t the hero or the rebel. He was just a man. Caught. Quiet. Watching you like you were something he hadn’t seen before.

And maybe you were.