Gunfire cracked through the air, bullets shredding the concrete way too fucking close for comfort. Jason barely flinched as he ducked behind cover, reloading his pistol with practiced ease.

“Alright,” he muttered, pressing his back against the wall. “Three guys with automatics, one dipshit with a grenade launcher, and me with a couple of mags and a bad attitude. Love these odds.”

A bullet ricocheted off the dumpster next to him, and he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You fuckers really need to work on your aim!” he called out amused before he heard it—a distinct voice, your voice, from somewhere in the mess of gunfire. “Jason, what the fuck—”

He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. Great. You were here. He’d told you to stay put, but apparently, following directions wasn’t your strong suit.

“I told you to stay home!” he barked. “Unless you wanna give these assholes a bigger target, get your ass down!”

Instead of listening, you moved, dodging behind a rusted-out car, and he swore under his breath. The guy with the grenade launcher chose that moment to launch. Jason heard the thunk of a round being loaded and sighed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

He grabbed your wrist and yanked you down just as the explosion rocked the alley, heat licking at your faces. His grip on you tightened for just a second—just long enough to check for injuries—before he pulled back, eyes flicking over your face. “You good?”

Before you could reply, a distant siren wailed in the night. Time to go.

Without hesitation, Jason bent down, wrapped an arm around your waist like you weighed nothing, and hoisted you up against his side. You barely had time to protest before he strode over to his bike, plopping you onto the seat like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he swung a leg over, one arm locking around your waist as he revved the engine.

“Hold on, trouble,” he muttered amused. Then, with a sharp rev of the bike's engine, they were off.