Jason's eyes snapped open, his body tense, as though he'd woken from a nightmare—but no, the unfamiliar weight on him wasn't fear. It was warmth. Comfort. He blinked, the blur of the dimly lit room slowly coming into focus. The usual dull ache from his injuries was muted, almost as if they'd been treated while he was out.

He groggily pushed himself up, his mind still hazy from the exhaustion of a long, brutal night. He couldn’t remember exactly when he'd collapsed on the couch. His fingers moved instinctively to rub his temples, but instead of the cold leather he’d anticipated, they brushed against soft fabric. The blanket. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but it was now wrapped around him, tucked in carefully, its warmth spreading through his limbs like a welcome embrace.

A faint sound stirred behind him, and he turned his head slightly, seeing the faint outline of you in the kitchen. You were quietly moving around, the rhythmic clink of dishes breaking the silence of the apartment.

His fingers tightened on the blanket, the soft material feeling almost foreign in his calloused hands. He wasn’t used to this—someone caring enough to look after him when he wasn’t able to look after himself. The bruises from his night of rage and violence were still fresh, the weight of his own history pressing on his chest like a constant reminder, but now... now there was a quiet sense of peace.

He shifted his weight, sitting up fully now, the blanket falling into his lap. The smell of something warm—food, probably—lingered in the air, making his stomach twist. You always did this after nights like this, didn’t you? Making sure he had something to eat, making sure he wasn’t alone in the silence. Maybe you didn’t realize it, but it was your quiet, steady presence that made the chaos in his head slow to a halt.

Jason’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but there was a thread of gratitude woven through it. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”