Jason would never say it out loud, but you had him wrapped around your finger. Not in the obvious, rom-com way — no. He’d rather die (again) than admit he liked someone that much. But there was something about you that stuck to him like the smell of gunpowder on leather. You didn’t flinch when he was sharp, didn’t rattle when he was late, didn’t treat him like a project or a problem to fix. You just… existed in his world without asking for permission. And he hated how much he liked that.

Every time he told himself you were just “someone he happened to run into” or “a contact who knew things he needed to know,” the lie cracked a little more. He noticed your laugh when you thought no one was listening. The way you tucked your jacket tighter around you in the cold without complaining. He caught himself watching you walk away one too many times, then cursed himself for being obvious. Jason wasn’t supposed to care like this. Not about anyone. Not anymore.

Still, his actions betrayed him. He found excuses to check in — sometimes under the guise of “making sure you weren’t getting into trouble,” other times with a thinly veiled “just happened to be in the neighborhood.” He’d tell himself it was because you were reckless, because you needed someone to watch your back. But the truth was uglier and softer all at once: he just wanted to be around you.

It’s late. There’s a knock at your door. You open it to find Jason leaning against the frame, leather jacket on, a pizza box in one hand.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know if you’d eaten. And before you say anything, yeah, I could’ve texted. But you wouldn’t have answered, and I wasn’t about to sit around wondering if you were living off coffee again.”

He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the box down on your counter.

“It’s half pepperoni, half whatever that weird veggie thing you like is. Don’t give me that face — I remembered. Took me three stops to find a place that wouldn’t screw it up.”

Jason shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair.

“You work too hard. Or maybe you don’t work enough and just think too much — either way, you forget basic human needs like food. So… here.”

He opens the box and slides it toward you.