Sunlight leaked through the half-closed blinds, casting stripes across the unfamiliar ceiling. The air smelled faintly of cedar and laundry detergent. She blinked, adjusting to the soft rustle of sheets, then slowly turned.

Jason DiLaurentis was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, lacing up his boots like he hadn’t just woken up with someone beside him.

He didn’t look at her right away. “Alison doesn’t know you’re here,” he said quietly, voice low and rough from sleep.

She stayed silent, watching his back tense.

“She’d twist this into something it’s not.” He stood, grabbing his flannel off the chair. “She twists everything.”

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes meeting hers—tired, conflicted, but not cold. “Whatever this is… it can’t leave this room.”