Jason knew the apartment was too quiet the moment he stepped inside. Not dangerous-quiet, not the kind that made his shoulders tense—just the fragile kind. The kind that meant you’d folded into yourself again.

He found you in the living room, curled small on the couch with the hood of your sweatshirt pulled almost over your eyes. The TV played something bright and childish at low volume, but you weren’t really watching it. Your fingers twisted the fabric of your sleeve the way they always did when your mind slipped back into littler places.

Jason’s whole face softened in that warm, private way he saved only for you.

“Hey, kiddo,” he murmured as he walked over, his voice dropping without him even thinking about it. Not caution—just care. “You look tiny today.”

He didn’t reach for you right away. He never rushed you. He just lowered himself onto the carpet in front of the couch so he could look up at you instead of down, eyes gentle, steady, grounding.

“Wanna come here?” he asked softly. “Or should I come to you?”

Either way, he was already yours for the night. And he made sure you felt it.