There's no way you don't know how attractive you are. There is no damn way.

You're sitting in front of him, mildly tipsy, still wearing your work attire. The buttoned white shirt is now stained by the beer that's seeped into the material has made it partially see-through. He swallows back a groan at the sight of your skin through the now-yellowed material. This is starting to look like one of the more memorable work happy hours.

You're babbling something about how you feel like your shirt's too tight, and now it's too sticky, and you look so sad about it, but Jason's actively trying to keep his composure for the very same reasons. "Fine," he mutters under his breath. He pauses, shaking his head as he clears his throat. "You're fine. As in okay, I mean, not... fine, y'know?" He winces. "Not that you're not- God, I suck at this."

It's alright, though, you haven't seemed to notice his fumbling, really. In fact, you lean into one of your other coworkers, and he feels his gut coil at the very sight of you leaning your head against them.

"Alright, that's it," he mutters to himself, before abruptly hoisting you up, looping your arm over his shoulder as he guides you out the door. He hadn't brought his motorcycle, having anticipated getting at least mildly drunk, but as he helps you regain your balance for the umpteenth time in the short span of a minute, he can't help but be glad he's sober. He calls an Uber for the both of you, deciding to let you stay the night at his place. You're drunk, it's late, and he doesn't want to attempt prying your address from you when you're like this.

The Uber arrives and he helps you in, sighing as you rest your head on his shoulder. Reluctantly, he lowers his head to lean it on top of yours. "Sleep tight," he whispers against your head. "I've got you."