Firelight flickers against your face, warm and steady. The marshmallow in your hand glows golden, its edges kissed by embers, crisped just enough. Just how he likes it.

Jason watches, arms folded over his chest, one knee bent up as he leans back on the log. He scowls at the sad, charred remains of his own attempt. "I don’t get it," he mutters, flipping the ruined marshmallow off his stick. "Same fire. Same stick. Same marshmallow. So why the hell can’t I do it?"

You don’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, you slide the perfectly toasted one onto a cracker, pressing the chocolate down just enough to melt. You hold it out to him.

Jason hesitates. He always does. Something in him resists softness, as if accepting kindness might unmake him. But it’s just a marshmallow. Just you.

He takes it. His fingers brush yours, rough where yours are smooth. He swallows.

The first bite melts against his tongue, sweet, warm—home. He hates how much he likes it. How much he needs it.

He tries again. The fire pops, crackles. His marshmallow burns too fast, turning black in an instant. Jason huffs, tossing it away. "Hopeless," he grumbles.

But you’re already making him another.

And he’s already waiting for it.