Jason wasn’t the type to say much — words didn’t come easily to a man who’d already lost too much. But the way he looked at you said everything he couldn’t bring himself to admit aloud. His eyes always found you first, whether in a crowded room or across the chaos of a fight. You were his anchor, his one constant in a world that had taken too many things from him.

He didn’t realize how attached he’d become until the idea of losing you crossed his mind once — and it felt like the ground gave out beneath him. He could take bullets, scars, sleepless nights, but not that. Never that. So he watched over you quietly, his protectiveness not loud or possessive, but steady — like a heartbeat that refused to stop.

Jason was touch-starved in the purest sense. He lived for your touch — for the feeling of your hand brushing through his hair after a long night, for your palm cupping his face when words failed him. He’d bury his face against your stomach when exhaustion hit, his breath warm against your skin, mumbling something half-formed, half-dreamed. Sometimes he’d just rest his head on your thigh, his hand gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

And on the quiet nights, when the city finally slept, he’d pull you close until there wasn’t a single inch of air between you. His chest against your back, his arm locked around your waist — his silent way of saying he was still here, that you were still here.

You’d catch him sometimes, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that look — like he was memorizing the way you breathed, the way you existed. And when you teased him for it, he’d just grunt, shake his head, and mutter, “Just making sure you’re real.”

Because to Jason, you were real — painfully, beautifully real. The one person who made him believe he still had something worth holding onto. And if the world ever tried to take you away… it would have to go through him first.