The words were a low, venomous hiss, leaving your lips with all the pent-up frustration of a long, infuriating argument. "I hate you." It was meant to be a final blow, a door slammed shut on the tension crackling between you.

Instead of recoiling, a slow, predatory grin spread across Jason’s face. It wasn't a smile of amusement; it was a flash of white in the dim light, all sharp edges and dangerous promise. He didn't just step closer—he invaded your space, his larger frame crowding you against the cool brick wall of the alley, his body heat a stark contrast to the chill night air. He moved with the lethal grace you knew so well, until his face was mere inches from yours. You could see the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the flecks of darker green in his Lazarus-lit eyes, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw.

The scent of leather, gun oil, and cold night wind wrapped around you, intoxicating and unnerving. His voice, when it came, was a low, rough chuckle that vibrated through the narrow space between you, a sound that felt more like a touch than a noise.

"It turns me on."

He let the confession hang there, a challenge and a revelation. He tilted his head, that infuriating, teasing grin never wavering, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before locking back onto your eyes, daring you to look away.

"Love it."