Your skin is still humming.

The sheets are a mess—half-kicked down the bed, twisted somewhere near your ankles—and the air between you is warm and slow, heavy with the afterglow of everything you didn’t say but felt. His chest rises beneath your hand, steady now, the storm of earlier faded into the kind of silence that only feels good when it’s shared.

Jason lies half on his side, one arm behind his head, the other draped loosely across your waist like he can’t quite let go. The shadows on his collarbone catch the light from the cracked door, painting sharp angles and softened scars in equal measure. He smells like sweat and soap and your skin. His hair is damp where it curls at the edge of his brow.

Your fingertips drift lazily over the muscle of his stomach—tracing the lines, the dips, the quiet strength that lives there like it was carved into him by something ancient and brutal. He twitches slightly when you graze a bruise along his ribs.

You smile.

“So,” you murmur, voice low and a little breathless, “when are you going to teach me your workout routine?”

Jason snorts. It’s a small sound, but it vibrates through his chest under your palm.

His eyes shift toward you—blue and dark in this light, softened at the edges but still sharp enough to read you like a page he’s folded a thousand times. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, lazy and fond. Maybe a little smug.

“You volunteering for pain?” he mutters. “Because it ain’t yoga and green juice, sweetheart.”

Your thumb runs over the edge of a scar just beneath his pec. “Maybe I like pain.”

His brow lifts. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. He shifts then, just slightly, adjusting so his body curves more into yours. The arm around your waist tightens—not enough to hold, just enough to remind.

“You serious?” he asks after a pause. His voice has dropped, less teasing now. “You wanna train with me?”

You shrug, cheek brushing against his bare shoulder. “Wouldn’t mind keeping up. Or at least pretending to.”

Jason’s quiet for a second. Then he leans in, presses a kiss to your temple—slow, deliberate, the kind that sinks in.

“I’ll start you easy,” he murmurs, mouth still close. “No rooftop parkour till week three.”