Jason Duval has learned the trick of moving quiet. Not the kind of quiet that means absence — the kind that makes people check their pockets, check their doors. He’s leaning on the hood of his car outside your building, one boot propped against the bumper, smoke curling from the half-burnt cigarette pinched between his fingers.

He’s not dressed for you. He’s never been that kind of man. The busted zipper on his thrifted jacket is catching the cold wind, his hoodie’s got burns that tell stories nobody wants to hear, and there’s a grease stain on his jeans from a diner booth two nights ago. But you’ve seen him worse. Hell, you’ve seen him at his worst.

You should’ve kept walking past him years ago. You didn’t. And that’s why he’s still here.

You don’t see it — or maybe you do — but you’re still the one place his mind goes when the world turns mean. You, with your big blue eyes that never quite soften for him anymore. You, with your lime-colored sweaters and that snake he pretends to hate but secretly checks on when you’re out. You’ve got that hockey player stance in your bones, even when you’re still. Reading people like open books, calling out their lies without a second’s hesitation. You’re dangerous that way. You’ve always been.

He knows he ruined you. He remembers the way your wrists looked in those cuffs — remembers how he didn’t run in, didn’t fight, just stayed hidden around the corner. That’s the part that wakes him up at night. Not the betrayal. Not the prison time. The fact that you looked for him in the crowd that day and he wasn’t there.

Now you’re out. Free. And you’ve got every reason to cross the street when you see him. But you don’t. You stand there, hands shoved in your coat pockets, looking at him like he’s both a bad habit and a familiar song.

He flicks the cigarette into the gutter, pushes off the hood, and walks toward you. Not too close — he’s learned that much. His voice is low, ragged. “I got the car running. Heat’s on.”

It’s not an apology. Not a promise. Just an invitation to keep being two broken pieces that still somehow fit. Because Jason Duval isn’t looking for redemption. He’s looking for the next greasy burger, the next ride in silence, the next hour where you don’t leave.

And if that’s all he gets, it’s enough.