Jesse didn’t think about it much.

Well, that was a lie.

He thought about it constantly.

Thought about the way you made him feel.

And maybe it wasn’t supposed to feel good. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to like it this much. But the first time you let him push you up against the breakroom wall, all soft breaths and wide eyes, Jesse figured out the thing that kept him up at night.

And that? That scared the shit out of him.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Right now, Jesse was slouched on the couch, halfway through a soggy gas station burrito, watching some B-grade slasher flick where the fake blood looked more like ketchup. The guy on screen screamed, loud and guttural, and Jesse barely blinked.

You were sitting on the floor, cross-legged, sorting through the store’s latest pile of return tapes. You didn’t say much—never did—just worked through the mess like it didn’t suck to be here this late.

Jesse took another bite. The burrito was mostly tortilla now. Dry as hell. Still, he chewed through it, barely tasting anything. His eyes flicked back to the screen just as the killer hacked through some guy’s chest.

And then—without thinking, without planning, without even realizing the words were coming out—he said it.

“You wanna go out sometime?”