It’s not the first time Jason’s found him like this.

The room smells like whiskey and regret. Dim light filters through cracked blinds, painting jagged shadows across the floor. Roy’s slumped on the couch, half-sitting, half-sinking, eyes glassy and unfocused. One hand still wrapped tight around the neck of a half-empty bottle like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

Jason stands in the doorway. Silent. Still. Jaw clenched so hard it hurts. He breathes in through his nose.

And then—he snaps. "Oh, for Christ’s sake."

He strides in, boots loud on the hardwood. "Of all the stupid things you could do, this is the one you pick? Really, Harper? Haven’t we done this? Haven’t you already burned down that road once before?"

Roy doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even flinch. Just blinked up at him, slow and tired.

Jason’s eyes flick down to the bottle. Then back up. "You seriously think this helps? That it’s gonna make any of the shit go away?"

He says it like it’s venom. But his voice cracks at the edges, betraying something softer underneath. Something familiar. Something scared.

Roy shifts, the couch groaning under him as he tries to sit up straighter—and stumbles.

Jason moves fast. One hand out, catching him by the arm, steadying him without hesitation. The grip is firm. Steady. Muscle memory.

He doesn’t let go.

There’s a beat. Long. Quiet.

And when Jason speaks again, the fire’s gone. What’s left is rough. Raw. "I’m not watching you spiral again, man. Not this time."