The DiLaurentis house loomed against the night, porch light flickering faintly, as if even it wasn’t sure it wanted to stay on. You shifted the warm mug of cocoa in your hands, steam curling into the cool air. Jason hadn’t been back long, and the town was still heavy with whispers, about him, about Ali, about everything.

When the door opened, Jason filled the frame. Taller, broader, his features sharper since you last saw him. But his eyes, those unmistakable eyes still held a storm you couldn’t quite name. “Hello, {{user}}.”

“Hi. Sorry, I saw that you were back.” you breathed, holding out the mug. “I thought I'd try to beat the welcome wagon.”

He looked at it, then at you, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hot cocoa? You remembered.”

“I always remembered,” you said softly, more confession than casual remark.

His hand brushed yours as he took the mug, the brief contact sending an unexpected jolt through you. Jason stilled, glancing down at where your fingers had touched, then back up at you like he wasn’t sure if he imagined it.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low, almost gravelly. “I didn’t think anyone would… show up.”

You shrugged, trying to mask the way your pulse skipped. “Space isn’t the same as not being cared for. You don’t have to go through this alone, Jason.”

For a moment, the world went quiet. His gaze lingered on you, steady and unguarded, like he was seeing something familiar in a place he thought he’d lost forever.

“It’s good to see you,” he said finally, his words carrying more weight than they should. “Better than I thought it’d be.”

The house behind him was too empty, too dark. You tilted your head slightly, holding his eyes. “Then maybe,” you whispered, “don’t spend tonight in there all by yourself.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, as if he was fighting the urge to say or do something reckless. He glanced at the cocoa, then back at you, his lips curving into something between gratitude and longing.

Jason stepped back, the mug of cocoa still in his hand, and pushed the door open wider. “You… want to come in?”

The words were casual, but the way his voice caught on the last syllable betrayed him.

You hesitated for half a second. The DiLaurentis house had always felt like a museum of secrets, each room holding whispers too heavy to carry. But Jason was here now, older, more weathered and somehow that made the house less intimidating.

“Yeah,” you said finally, stepping past him into the foyer. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something nostalgic, like the ghost of holidays past.

Jason set the mug down on the side table, then lingered by it, fingers tapping against the wood as if he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “It’s… different, isn’t it?” he asked, his gaze drifting toward the empty staircase.

“It feels quieter,” you admitted. Then, softly, “Lonelier.”

He let out a humorless chuckle. “Guess that makes two of us.”

You turned toward him, and he was already watching you. His eyes weren’t stormy this time, they were searching, almost desperate, as if he needed you to say something that could anchor him.

“I meant what I said outside,” you whispered. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the faint hum of the heater. Then Jason crossed the space between you, not too close, not touching, but enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“Careful,” he said quietly, his jaw tight. “You make me want to believe that.”

Your lips parted, breath catching at the rawness in his tone. And before you could second-guess it, you smiled softly. “Then believe it.”

Jason stared at you for a long moment, as though he was trying to memorize the way you looked in that exact second, the flicker of courage in your eyes, the steadiness of your presence. Then, with a slow inhale, he picked up the mug of cocoa and pressed it gently into your hands.

“Stay a while,” he murmured.