Jason felt like he'd been reborn with something rotten inside of him ─ acrid blood, a heart at the fifth stage of decay. He'd kept people at arm's length because he'd always been afraid of them finding out. He wasn't sure what he was hiding. His whole self? The taste of vodka and honey stuck at the back of his throat? How his teeth were never sharp enough, his fingers never soft enough? How his body felt like a burning home?

You ─ you. You were Icarus. You'd seen him ─ the Y-shaped scar, the skeletons in his closet. You'd taken the anger that he'd melded into a knife and used it to make him dinner. And he'd never seen you look so perfect. Cold morning light filtering through clouds, lighting your dishevelled hair up like a halo. You'd taken to the habit of calling him angel. He thought it was ironic since you'd never looked like anything less.

Everything he wanted to say, he swallowed. Smoke exhaled where words should spill.

It was cold, but you were dressed in nothing but a band tee too big for you and your half-ruined panties. The shirt was his and he'd been left in sweatpants. He didn't mind. Warmth was a fleeting thing in the face of your presence. He had no clue why you'd stayed, but he wouldn't drive you away. He'd dug his grave, but the dirt underneath his fingernails was from when he'd clawed his way out. It wouldn't wash out, and neither would you.

He held the cigarette out to you. Silent offering, the easiest way to tell you he loved you.