I’m sitting on the edge of my bed while Jason’s sprawled across it, controller in his hands, the game music looping because he hasn’t moved in a minute. He keeps tapping buttons anyway, like muscle memory. My room smells like laundry detergent and something vaguely sweet, and he’s absently picking up random stuff from my nightstand — a ring, a cracked lip balm, setting them back down like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“People still talk about you,” I say, kind of offhand. Like it’s nothing.

He pauses the game. Again. His jaw tightens just a little.

“People talk about everyone,” he says. Defensive already.

I look at him. “Not like that.”

He sits up this time, leaning back against my headboard. “You’re acting like I was some kind of monster.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.” He drops the controller onto the bed harder than he needs to. “I was part of a team. That’s how it was. You stick with your own.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

He exhales through his nose, frustrated. “I didn’t go out of my way to be cruel. I didn’t even care about half of that stuff.”

“But you let it happen.”

His eyes flick away from mine. “So did a lot of people.”