The apartment smells like popcorn and frustration.
Jason's on the couch, half-slouched, eyes glued to the TV as his team fumbles again. He yells something halfway between a groan and a war cry, tossing a throw pillow across the room. It hits the wall with a soft thud and falls flat, like it's even tired of losing.
I close the door behind me gently, but not gently enough.
He hears it.
His head turns, eyes locking on mine. For a split second, he doesn't blink. Just stares. Then his gaze drops to my outfit and slowly returns to my face.
"Hey," he says, voice low.
He stands, and that's when I notice—shirtless again.
Of course.
The tattoos across his chest move with every breath, ink and skin dancing together in some silent rhythm I used to know by heart. My throat tightens.
I swallow hard.
God, he looks good. Too good. Like, he doesn't even have to try.
