The safehouse still smells like cordite and rain. Jason sits on the edge of the battered couch, helmet on the floor between his boots, chest rising too fast for someone who’s supposed to be fine. The walls hum with the generator, a low, steady sound that makes the quiet feel earned. He rolls his shoulders, feeling where armor saved him by inches. Another inch and there’d be a chalk outline instead of this room.

He finally looks up.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough, trying for casual and failing. “I know. That was… too damn close.”

His hands shake when he peels the gloves off. He curls his fingers into fists to stop it, jaw tight, breath still riding high. The memory flashes—gunfire, the drop, the sick weightless second where he thought this was it. Not again. Not like that.

Jason pushes to his feet, pacing once, then stopping right in front of them. He doesn’t touch yet. Doesn’t trust himself to.

“Hey.” Softer now. “You’re here. We’re here.”

The words don’t feel big enough. His throat works around it. He reaches out, fingers hovering, then settling at their wrist like he needs proof. Pulse. Warm. Real. Relief hits him so hard his knees threaten to fold.

A breath. Another.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, trying to joke, failing again. His mouth quirks anyway, crooked and fond. His thumb rubs a small, grounding circle against skin. The adrenaline hasn’t burned off; it’s buzzing under his skin, electric, making everything sharp and bright.

He leans in without asking, forehead bumping theirs. A quiet huff of a laugh escapes him, shaky. “Guess we’re bad at taking it slow.”

The kiss is sudden and desperate, all heat and relief. Jason’s hand slides up to the back of their neck, anchoring, like if he lets go the universe might remember it almost took them. He pulls back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, cheeks flushed.

“God,” he murmurs, resting his brow against theirs again. “I thought I lost you.”

The room fades to the edges. He kisses them again, slower this time, still intense but steadier, like he’s proving they survived. His other hand settles at their waist, firm but careful, grounding them both. He exhales, a laugh pressed into the kiss, alive and a little stunned by it.

When he finally pulls away, he stays close, noses brushing, breath mingling. His shoulders loosen for the first time since the mission went sideways.

“We won,” he says quietly, like a promise. “And I’m not wasting that.”