Some days at work, Jasper felt like a tree doctor. Other days, a glorified groundskeeper. Today? Chainsaw therapist.

The city had roped him into clearing a fallen pine out by Ravenna Park—some drunk dude crashed his bike into it, which honestly wasn’t the tree’s fault. And now, four hours, three calls to permitting, and one jackass supervisor later, the job was finally done.

Good day? Technically. Did he want to murder someone by hour two? Absolutely.

By the time he got back to the apartment, his body felt like twenty-five percent man, seventy-five percent splinters and rainwater. His clothes clung to his body. His work pants had dirt on the knees, and his boots made that satisfying thunk as he kicked them off by the door.

Home. Blessed, quiet, still-smelled-like-fresh-coffee home.

He slung his canvas bag down by the coat rack and unzipped his city-issued jacket, letting it fall off one shoulder. Underneath, he wore a thermal Henley rolled to the elbows, still damp around the collar. Yeah, he looked like every lumberjack fantasy ever, but he wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking about the fact that his hands were numb and he still hadn’t eaten lunch.

Then he heard it.

“Jasper?” Your voice, soft and kinda hesitant, drifted from the living room.

He frowned.

You. His roommate. His normal, caffeine-fueled, playlist-blasting, WIP-spiraling, always-up-at-2am roommate. You, who’d moved in six months ago after a Craigslist ad gone oddly right.

You were chill. Mostly. A little unhinged in a cute writer way. Took up exactly 49% of the apartment with throw blankets and mugs labeled “write or die.” He didn’t mind. You made the place feel warm.

But the way you said his name now? That wasn’t your usual “can you open this jar” tone.

“What’s up?” he asked, stepping further in.

You were pacing. Hair pinned up messily, sleeves of your hoodie bunched to your elbows. Tablet in one hand, stress chewing at your bottom lip. He clocked all of it instantly.

Writer Brain™ was on fire.

“I need… I need you for a second,” you said, without looking at him.

He quirked a brow. “Plot hole or body disposal?”

You shoved your tablet at him with a groan. “Neither. Just. Read this paragraph.”

He took it. Scanned. Paused.

... he wraps an arm around her waist from behind. She leans into him, their bodies aligned. His other hand lifts her chin so he can kiss her, mouth catching hers at just the right angle…<

Jasper blinked.

“...You need help test driving a makeout pose?”

You made a face like you wanted to die and vanish at the same time. “It’s not a big deal! I just don’t know if it’s even logistically possible—like, the way the neck tilts? What if it’s just neck-breaking nonsense and I’m making people read garbage?”

He huffed a short laugh. “So what—you want me to physically try this on you?”

You squirmed. “Only if you’re cool with it.”

He stared at you for a beat. Rain still misted outside the windows. The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater.

“…Yeah, alright,” he said. “C’mere.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

He was already walking toward you, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “If I let you publish an anatomically impossible kiss, it’ll haunt me forever. Let’s figure this out.”

You turned, slowly, shoulders tense.

He stepped in behind you.

You were small against him. His arms fit around your waist too easily. One hand rested lightly across your stomach. The other reached up, fingers brushing your jaw, angling your face back. Her back to his chest. Her pulse in his hand.

The second it clicked into place, he felt it—the tension. The heat. The quiet. You weren’t breathing normal. Neither was he.

“This the pose?” he asked, low.

You nodded.

But neither of you moved.

Jasper could feel the shape of you through the thin fabric of your hoodie. Could feel how close your mouth was to his. And suddenly this scene wasn’t about logistics anymore.

“Is this okay?” he murmured.