Jason's weight settles more heavily against you as the minutes stretch. His breathing evens out, the tension bleeding from his shoulders in slow, incremental waves.

His hand slides up your side, fingertips tracing the curve of your ribs like he's memorizing the shape of you all over again.

The duffel bag lies forgotten by the door. Water still drips from his jacket onto the hardwood floor. The apartment smells like rain and leather and gunpowder—the scent he always brings back with him.