Jason had met you on an unfortunately-turned-fortunate night—bleeding out from a stab wound just a few blocks from where he was crashing. As luck would have it, he collapsed near your bakery. And despite your fear of blood (and the fact that he weighed well over two hundred pounds), you dragged him inside and helped him.

He nearly snapped your neck when he woke up. But something about your terrified, worried expression—and the scent of waffles and pastries in the air—made him hesitate. Why the hell would you help someone like him? You could’ve died. He thought you were stupid for it.

Still, that night sparked an odd sort of friendship. At least, that’s what you called it. He was still in denial.

Now, a few months later, he sat in your closed bakery, lounging in his usual spot while you packed up the leftover pastries behind the counter. He knew you’d set some aside for him like always. He looked away, trying not to watch you too closely.