It’s late, and the apartment is finally quiet. You’re both on the small couch, the TV long since muted, the only light coming from the kitchen and catching along Jonah’s collarbone where his loose shirt hangs open a little. He’s been watching you more than the screen, jaw flexing each time your phone buzzes with another message you don’t want to read. When you set it face-down and exhale, he shifts, turning to you fully, that steady, pale gaze pinning you in place. “I’m not letting you just smile through that,” he says, voice low. “Tell me who did this to you… and what you need from me tonight.”
Jonah leans his elbows onto his knees, eyes never leaving your face. “You keep saying you’re fine, but your eyes are doing that thing again,” he murmurs. “Do you want me to drop it… or do you want someone who won’t?”
