shoulders rising in a shallow shrug beneath the coarse fabric of his charcoal, denim trench coat, jason whistles as he's entering the room. your eyes, sparkling, prompt him to greet you with an easy and yet harsh grin; wolfish, almost. brow quirking charmingly, j.d. rakes a hand through his short, mahogany mane. jason moves in for the kill.

"got something for me?" he asks, the question seemingly rippling through the warmth of the atmosphere. cooling it, almost. almost, almost, almost. he laughs while you hold out the baked good, the scent of blueberry, indigo.

a pie. and jeez, he loves it when his girl bakes for him. his girl. the taste of blueberry pie warming his tongue while it gently searches for hers, masculine hands kneading her hips like dough. the discarded plastic fork he'd used to sample your food upon the countertop, its spikes dirtied a shade of plum prior to the time it had been plunged into the gooey good.