The two of you had never been the traditional couple. You weren’t the roses-and-candles kind, or the his-and-hers mugs type. You were more like bloodstained knuckles and mismatched socks. You were loud laughs in quiet diners at 3 a.m. and limbs tangled under threadbare sheets. Chaos and calm, war and peace. And strangely, it worked.

You’d been living together for a while now—his place technically, though most of your things had bled into it. Your hair ties were on every doorknob. His guns were in the fruit bowl. Somehow, it all blended.

And every morning was the same ritual. You always got up before him, dragging your half-asleep body into the bathroom for a shower, trying to beat him to the hot water. And somehow, without fail, he’d show up just as the steam started filling the room.

This morning wasn’t any different.

You were in the shower, eyes half-shut, shampoo in your hair, when you heard the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door creaking open.

“Jason,” you muttered under the water, already knowing.

“Relax,” his voice was gravelly, sleepy. “Not trying to peek. Just gotta take a dump.”

You groaned, forehead meeting the cool tile wall.

He plopped himself down on the toilet like it was the most normal thing in the world. And for you two, it was.

There was no modesty anymore, no boundaries, no fake politeness. You’d seen him bleeding out on the floor before, seen him stitched back together more times than you could count. And he’d seen you at your worst, your rawest, sobbing into his hoodie over nothing, everything.

He made no effort to be quiet. You heard the newspaper crackle—because of course he had an actual physical paper for this. He claimed it added to the “experience.”

“You know,” you called over the sound of running water, “this is the exact opposite of romance.”

Jason snorted. “This is real love, babe. If you can handle this, you can handle anything.”

You cracked a grin, despite yourself.

Because it was true.

There were nights when he came home half-dead, blood soaking through his shirt. You’d patch him up, sit on his lap while he winced, kiss his temple when it was all over. There were mornings where you couldn’t get out of bed, not from laziness, but from that old ache in your chest you couldn’t name. And he’d just climb in next to you, saying nothing, letting the silence wrap around you both.

So yeah, maybe your boyfriend was currently shitting while you were showering.

But he was also the man who checked the locks three times every night because he knew you couldn’t sleep unless you felt safe. The man who’d kill for you, die for you, and still remember how you like your toast.

And when you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around your dripping body, you didn’t even blink at him still seated on the throne. You just brushed your teeth beside him like it was any other morning.

Because it was.