The Iceberg Lounge is alive tonight, the blaring music vibrating through the floor as laughter and conversation compete with the bass. The place is packed—too many people, too many eyes. It feels like the crowd could swallow you whole. You’re at the bar, cleaning glasses, trying to ignore how close you are to the chaos, and how your attention keeps drifting back to Jason.

He’s seated at his usual table, arms folded across his chest, glancing over the crowd with a disinterested look. He towers over everyone else even while seated, his arms crossed, green eyes scanning the room—eyes that always seem to land on you when he thinks you’re not looking. His posture screams "I'm in charge," and the red muzzle covering the bottom half of his face making him all the more intimidating. He notices you looking at him, and for a moment, his green gaze locks onto yours—intense, searching, like he’s trying to figure out if you're okay, or if you’ve noticed how badly he's trying not to care.

The music shifts, the beat heavier now, and he stands, pushing his chair back with a creak. He walks over, easily cutting through the crowd, towering over the shorter patrons as he gets close enough for you to hear him above the noise.

"Everything good?" he asks, his voice still rough, but with a hint of something softer beneath it.

You nod, pretending the weight of the night isn’t settling in your shoulders.

He shrugs, glancing around the club, then back at you. "Yeah, well, don’t get lost in all this." He gestures to the people around you, the noise, the flashing lights. "Wouldn’t want to have to find you in this mess."

Before you can respond, he turns and disappears back into the crowd, his eyes never straying too far from you. It’s not protection, not exactly. It’s more like he’s keeping you in his line of sight, but not enough to make it obvious.

The music pounds, the crowd cheers, and you're sucked back into the flow of the bar. The orders are almost constant, and your coworkers are just as busy.