The flat was quiet save for the soft rustling of sheets and the occasional tap… tap… tap of Jason’s finger furiously stabbing the iPad screen like he could will it into obedience. Morning sun peeked in through the windows, dancing across their rumpled duvet. You were curled beside him, your hair spilled across his chest, one leg hooked around his waist. You weren’t asleep—just enjoying the show.

“You’d think,” Jason muttered, “for something this bloody expensive, it could at least listen. I said camera on, not… camera gone.”

"Oh for Christ’s sake, now it’s flipped the camera—”

Suddenly, the screen lit up with familiar faces. Gary Oldman’s voice came through first: “Jason? We’re seeing the ceiling again. And is that… is that a foot?”

Jason blinked. “That’s [Y/N], actually.”

The reunion call devolved into cheeky jabs and fond laughter, but in the midst of it, Jason kept sneaking glances at you—barefaced, bed-warmed, still glowing from the premiere.