You and Jason don’t date. You don’t label anything. But somehow, it’s domestic as hell. You have sides of the bed in every safehouse, even though neither of you admits it. You argue over blankets. Over windows being open. Over whose turn it is to clean blood out of the sink. You lose those arguments equally. Jason fixes things you never ask him to. Loose doors. Flickering lights.
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@mayaaaa__776The safehouse smelled like stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite washed out of the grout. It was 3 AM on a Tuesday, or maybe a Wednesday. The kind of hour that belonged to insomniacs and vigilantes.
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