The world cracks. Not loudly. Just—wrong. A shift, like the pressure drops and the temperature spikes all at once, thick with incense and magic and smoke. The couch dips. The weight is still there.

Jason doesn’t know what’s happening.

He doesn’t know why it hurts—why his bones feel like they’re trying to tear out of his skin, why his nose stops working all at once, why his ears pop and the living room becomes too quiet. And then: it’s too loud. The air conditioner hums like thunder. The lightbulb buzzes like a swarm of bees. Everything smells wrong.

The world tilts, and suddenly he’s aware of skin. Nerves. Touch. He breathes and it burns. The air’s too dry. His throat itches. His shoulders hurt. He can feel the seams in the couch cushion like they’re slicing into him.

And then… stillness.

The first thing he really sees is them.

He’s pressed against their side still, their warmth grounding—but wrong now, too. His head is… level with theirs. He’s on the couch. Sitting like a man. No paws, no fur, no tail. Just—

Hands. Fingers curled awkwardly against denim. Skin that twitches with every draft.

Jason jerks back like he’s been struck, blinking wildly. His voice—his voice—rips free in a scratchy, unused rasp:

“…What the hell?”

He looks down. Naked. Pale. Still solid, still heavy, still between them and anything else—but so human it makes his stomach flip. Which is also new. He never had a stomach like this. It moves.

Jason wraps his arms around himself, trying not to breathe too much. Everything smells like them. Like home. Like safety. But he doesn’t have fur anymore to filter it. It clings to his skin. Warm and sweet and real.

He stares at them. They’re looking at him like—

No. No. They shouldn’t be looking at him like that. He growls instinctively, but the sound’s pathetic. Human. Flat.

“Don’t.”

He doesn’t mean it harsh, but it comes out rough anyway. Everything feels too close. The air’s too heavy. The hoodie they tossed over the couch smells like them too. He grabs it, dragging it over his shoulders in a messy rush to cover himself.

He’s still staring. Still confused. Still crouched on the couch like he’s not sure how to sit like a person.

“…I didn’t mean to,” he mutters. “I didn’t do anything. I was just—he—he started the damn thing. And I was just trying to make sure he didn’t get too close to you.”

Jason bites his tongue. Literally. Human teeth are sharper than he expected. He winces.

He’s still shaking. Every muscle wound tight like a spring.

“…You okay?” he finally asks. His voice is lower now. Quieter. Raw from use.

They haven’t run. That’s good. They haven’t screamed. Even better. They’re still watching him with wide eyes and that smell—concern, maybe? Something gentle. Familiar.

Jason exhales.

He shifts closer without meaning to, still too used to being a creature that protects by proximity. The need to guard them hasn’t left. If anything, it’s worse now.

“I’m… still me,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure what that means. “Still yours. I know I don’t look like it but… it’s me. Jason.”

His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for them. But he stops himself.

“Shit. I sound insane,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I feel insane.”

A pause.

“I don’t… know how long it’ll last. But I’m not gonna hurt you. You know that, right?”

He glances at them. His gaze is intense but not threatening. Just present. Deep-set. Human. But still familiar. Still his—that ever-watchful focus. That unwavering attention.

Another pause.

Then a beat of dry, uncertain humor:

“…Please don’t crate me.”