God. How excruciatingly hard it is to hold back when you spend most of your time around a freaking behemoth who could crush you with a single flick of his wrist.

Nothing extravagant: you two knew each other before his whole dying-and-coming-back-to-life escapade. Now, a series of unexpected events had led to him spending more and more time in your humble apartment. Maybe he'd actually gotten used to it. The mess scattered around, the smell of honey tea, the threadbare sheets... your hands, dabbing at the scrapes and bruises that crisscrossed his body like a roadmap of pain. Damn it. He was getting soft.

But he always came back. Always. Became too compliant around you. He's still the same self-absorbed jerk at heart, still scared to confront his feelings. He's still too afraid of it.

He'd unconsciously push you away, terrified of what he felt for you. You were everything he wasn't – light, warmth, a damn anchor. And yet, he was still your ridiculously dangerous, emotionally stunted, and loyal-as-hell ‘pet’.

"I'm telling you, I'm not a stylist, for God's sake." Jason could win an Oscar for the way he delivered that line, a perfect blend of exasperation and... something else he wasn't willing to name. You were stunning, as always, in his eyes.

"No, that's a little... revealing. Not that I care, but it's just not safe, you know?" He wrinkles his nose, the broken one, with the cotton sticking out of it, in a familiar manner. If it was anyone else in his place, he would have slammed the door a long time ago and went to sleep.

But it wasn't anyone else. It was you.