It was always your place. Every late-night knock, every barely whispered text at two in the morning—it always led him here. He’d climb through your window if you were asleep, leave the helmet on the kitchen counter, and act like he’d been invited even if he hadn’t asked. He said it was convenience. He said it was safer. He said nothing when you offered to come to him instead.

You never pushed. The unspoken rules worked—no sleepovers that lasted past sunrise, no toothbrush left behind. You let him move in shadows because you figured that’s where he felt safest. But after weeks of this—Jason in your bed, in your shower, in your orbit—it started to ache, just a little, every time he left.

The night you were supposed to drop something off—just a borrowed hoodie, some leftover takeout—you found yourself outside his apartment. Curiosity had gnawed away at patience, and he hadn’t answered your last few texts. The door was unlocked. The place was dim and quiet. A little messy. And then you saw it—on the nightstand, right by the lamp. A photo. Of you. Framed.