The apartment was quiet in that charged way that meant neither of them really wanted to be the one to break it.

Jason leaned back against the counter like he owned the place, watching you with that familiar half-smirk that always meant he thought he was in control of the situation. You had your back turned, rummaging through a grocery bag, trying to act normal despite the electricity humming in the air.

“Relax,” he said. “You look like you’re diffusing a bomb.”

You laughed under your breath. “Maybe I am.”

What you thought you had grabbed was the little bottle you bought earlier — honey. Or… what you assumed was honey. Same color. Same size. Same innocent packaging vibe. Jason stepped closer, curiosity winning out. “What is it?” You hesitated. Something felt off. The label looked… weird. Too many words. Way too many promises. Your stomach dropped.

“…Jay…” you had said slowly, voice tight.

He didn’t notice. He’d already taken it, turning it over in his hands with casual interest.

“That’s not honey…”

He blinked. “What?”

Then he read the front. Silence. You could practically hear the gears in his head grind to a halt.

His eyebrows shot up. His posture stiffened. He reread it. Then read it again, like the letters might rearrange themselves into something less mortifying.

They didn’t.

A beat passed.

Another.

Jason coughed — sharp, awkward, deeply human. “Well,” he said, carefully placing it back on the counter like it might explode, “that’s… not going anywhere near tea.”