You still remember the first night you saw him.

It was some extravagant party your father hosted — the kind of gathering where expensive champagne masked the scent of old blood, and laughter rang hollow against marble walls. You had stepped onto the balcony to escape, to breathe. And that’s where you found him.

Jason.

He stood there like he didn’t belong, hands in his pockets, a crooked half-smile tugging at his lips as if he already knew something you didn’t. You had no idea then that he was there on a mission, a ghost moving through the party to collect information that would one day bring your father to his knees.

The plan had been simple: get close, learn the inner workings of your family’s empire, dismantle it from the inside out. You were just supposed to be a vulnerability — a way in.

But you were warm, and alive, and nothing like the people in your father’s circle. You made terrible jokes and hated champagne. You talked too much when you were nervous and snuck stray cats inside, convinced you could save them all.

Somewhere along the way, his mission blurred at the edges. Somewhere along the way, he stopped watching and started falling.

Now he’s in your room again. He came hours ago, slipping through the balcony window like a dream you’re terrified to wake from. His jacket is tossed over your chair, his gloves half-hanging out of his back pocket. You’re lying against his chest, listening to the slow, uneven beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Your fingers drift lazily over the scars on his ribs, the quiet, unspoken map of the battles you’ll never know about.

He smells like rain and leather and that cheap diner coffee he always pretends to hate. You soak it in like it might disappear any second.

You feel it when he starts to pull away. The tension gathering under his skin, the way his arm tightens around your shoulders just before he moves. You pretend not to notice, but your breath catches anyway.

He looks down at you, eyes soft in the half-dark, something like regret flickering at the edges. His thumb brushes against your jaw, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“I gotta get going,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “I’ve got… work. You know how it is.”

He doesn’t give you time to ask questions. You never do. He built his cover carefully, a web of half-truths and easy charm. Some vague consulting gig, dangerous enough to explain the bruises, secret enough to keep you out of it. You never pressed, never really wanted to see beyond the small, stolen world you built together in these late-night hours.

His fingers slide under your chin, tilting your face up. He leans in and kisses your forehead, soft and lingering, like a promise he can’t make out loud.

“Wish I could stay longer,” he whispers against your skin. “But you know me.”

Your chest feels too tight, your hands tangled in the sheets as he moves away. You watch him shrug on his jacket, every movement so painfully familiar it carves you open. He glances back once at the window, that lopsided, sad smile playing at his lips.

“I’ll come back,” he says, a quiet vow that tastes like hope and heartbreak all at once.

And then he’s gone.

The room stretches around you, too silent, too cold. You stare at the space where he was, at the curtains drifting in the moonlit breeze. You try not to think about where he’s really going, or what secrets he hides behind that easy grin.

You don’t know that he was meant to end your father’s empire. You don’t know he came to destroy everything you’ve ever known, only to fall into the one thing he shouldn’t have touched.

All you know is that the second he slips into the night, the world feels emptier.