“What? Are you not allowed to have friends? Your boyfriend that insecure?” Jason raises an eyebrow at you, shifting his weight against your doorway like he’s settling in for a long, silent standoff.

His voice is calm, almost casual — but there’s a sharpness under it, a quiet challenge that’s always been there between you two. You’ve known it since the beginning, back when you were just two kids orbiting each other for five years before finally admitting what you were.

Two years of dating. Two years of stolen nights and whispered promises and too many mornings where he left before sunrise. Then the breakup. Too complicated, too dangerous. You wanted a future — something steady, maybe even a family someday — and he didn’t know if he could ever give you that, not with the life he leads. You both told each other it was for the best.

Afterward, you decided to stay friends. You both said it like a vow — like it was the only way to survive the loss without tearing each other apart completely. And you meant it. You do see each other as friends now. But you both feel the truth under your skin: that love like this doesn’t just vanish. It roots too deep to ever really be pulled out.

Jason’s been drifting in and out ever since, finding reasons to show up. You never really tell him no. Maybe you don’t want to.

Your dog bolts down the street? Jason appears like he’s been lurking just out of sight, scooping him up before disaster hits. A hoodie you forgot you still had? He “needs” it back, but stays for dinner, leaning against your counter like it’s still his spot.

You both keep calling it friendship. And it is — at least, on the surface. But it’s a friendship that hums with all the old echoes of what you were, and what you still might be, if things were different.

Jason steps inside without waiting for your answer, dropping his keys onto the counter with that dull clatter you know too well. He looks around, jaw ticking slightly, eyes sweeping the kitchen like he’s checking for threats — or maybe for traces of you he left behind.

“Relax,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not here to ruin your happy ending. Just… making sure you’re okay.”

His gaze lands on you again, lingers. The way it always does. You’ve felt that stare a thousand times — in your hallway, in your bed, in the quiet seconds before he pulled you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He moves closer, brushing something invisible off your cheek. His fingers hover there for a second too long, like he’s fighting the instinct to stay. Like he always does.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, voice rougher now, a hint of something unspoken caught behind his teeth. “I know you better than anyone. That doesn’t just… disappear. Not even if there’s someone else.”

You hold your breath. Because he’s right. He’s always been right when it comes to you.

Jason steps back, dragging a hand through his hair, looking around like he needs to find something to hold onto. He moves to your fridge, rummaging without really seeing anything, muttering about your pathetic excuse for groceries.

There’s something almost bitter in the way he says it. Like he hates himself for caring. Like he hates that he still knows where you hide the good leftovers, that he still wants to take care of you even now.

Finally, he closes the fridge and turns, leaning against it with his arms crossed. His eyes meet yours, steady and sharp, and for a moment the room feels smaller than it should.

“So,” he says, voice low and even, but you can hear it — that edge of something raw just under the surface. “What’s your boyfriend’s deal about not wanting us to be friends?”