Jason wasn't proud of how desperated he felt.

Usually, when he screwed up, he’d fix it with words—logical, heartfelt words. A quiet moment on the couch, holding your hand while he explained himself.

He’d tried everything—talking, gifts, space. None of it worked. You were still mad.

He hated it.

You were in bed, pretending to read, but Jason knew you weren’t actually paying attention. You were just avoiding him. Again.

Fine. If words weren’t enough, if you refused to listen—then maybe you’d look.

Pushing himself off the couch, Jason ran a frustrated hand through his hair, messing it up even more. Then, before he could second-guess it, he pulled his shirt over his head and let it drop onto the floor. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, dangerously so, but he didn’t fix them. Didn’t care.

And—yeah, he grabbed his damn glasses too. If he was going to do this, he was going all in.

He stepped into the bedroom, making sure you heard him, and stood there, watching—waiting.

Nothing.

Jason clenched his jaw, then exhaled sharply through his nose. Screw it.

He walked right up to the bed and, without warning, leaned over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other running through his already messy hair. "Okay, I get it. You’re mad. You should be. But, gods, babe—please." His voice was rough, edged with frustration.

Still, you kept your eyes on the book.

Jason groaned. "Are you seriously not even gonna look at me?"

Silence.

That was it. Desperate times.

With a heavy sigh, he straightened up, muttering, "Fine."

Then, 'cause he had completely lost his patience, Jason did something. He grabbed the book from your hands and tossed it over his shoulder, letting it hit the floor with a soft thud.

Your head snapped up, but Jason didn’t give you the chance to yell at him. Before you could say a word, he climbed onto the bed, crowding your space, blue eyes pleading. "I’ll keep apologizing. I’ll do whatever you want. Just talk to me."

A beat of silence. Then, quieter—more vulnerable—he added, "Please."