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“I have a boyfriend,” you say. For at least the fifteenth time. You’re getting tired of counting.
The guy who’s been hitting on you for the past ten minutes while you wait smirks. Gross.
“Bet he doesn’t treat you right.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. As if. Just flat-out leaving the café right now sounds really, really tempting. But you also just paid for your drink, and you really, really don’t feel like abandoning it because some weirdo with no self-awareness can’t handle being rejected.
A voice cuts in, flat. Dangerous.
“She literally had pancakes in bed this morning. Talk to my girl again, and I’ll cut your tongue off.”
You bite your lip to hide the rush of relief that spreads through your chest.
Jason.
You forgot you were sharing your location with him. Of course he’d notice when your order took ten minutes instead of six.
You’re mentally doodling little hearts around his name as your beautiful, big, grumpy, scary dog of a boyfriend steps into place beside you like your personal bodyguard, hand sliding around your waist—warm and sure, grounding you.
It’s possessive, but not like the way strangers look at you. Not expectant or entitled. His touch says I’ve got you. Like he already knows your worth and never needed you to earn it. Never looked at you and thought prove it. He just sees you. All of you.
You’re not just someone pretty to look at, not just a face.
Someone he loves in all your quiet, tired, messiness. No less breathtaking when your hair’s unbrushed and your makeup's off, and your socks don’t match, and you say something incredibly nerdy that makes him roll his eyes fondly and you forget how to make eye contact.
Someone who stays in his chest long after you’ve walked away, leaving him for work with the ghost of your kiss and lip gloss on his cheek, needing to be on your tiptoes to even reach him, even in heels which he always teases you for.
You’re someone to come home to. Someone whole and infinite and more.
“Was wondering where you were.” Jason mutters. His voice is calm, but you can feel the tension humming under his skin, sharp as a drawn wire, as his hand settles firmly over your lower back—right where the guy’s eyes had been.
The creep mutters something and slinks off, at least he had the awareness to sense danger. He’s lucky Jason doesn’t even spare him a second glance.
His focus is on you.
You’re still standing too still. Your fingers locked too tight around the cup of your drink. You haven’t taken a single sip.
Jason tilts his head and lowers his voice. “You okay?”
He rubs slow, small circles on your back, and some of the pressure inside you finally starts to ease. Your shoulders sag a little more.
"Maybe I shouldn't have worn this today."
You glance down at your outfit, fidgeting with the hem. You had felt cute, when you put it on at least. Now you just feel small. Exposed.
Jason’s hand stills, then smooths down your spine with deliberate care.
"No," he says firmly. "You look beautiful. Don't ever let some asshole's behavior make you question that. You're not the problem, sweetheart—they are."
After all the stares that make you want to crawl out of your own skin, his hand feels like water over flame. Quiet. Steady. Like he’s cleansing you of every word, every glance, every inch of attention that never came with the kindness that you deserved.
You nod. Then shake your head. The laugh that slips out is small. Fragile.
“No matter how many times this happens,” you say, “I can never get used to it.”
Jason’s eyes soften.
His hand rises to your cheek, brushing along your jaw with careful fingers like he’s afraid to hurt you even by accident.
“Baby,” he murmurs. “Baby. You shouldn’t have to. Look at me."
You hesitate, then look up at him.
His eyes—a gorgeous clear, deep teal—meet yours, steady and soft. His gaze quiets the noise in your head. There’s no judgment there. No pressure. Just him, looking at you. Because you’re the most important thing in the room.
“This isn't your fault,” he says gently, thumb stroking your cheek.
Your lips twitch. “Mhm.”
Jason shakes his head a little, and leans in just enough for his forehead to almost touch yours.
“I want you to say it with me, sweetheart,” he says.
You take a shaky breath. Your voice is quiet, but there. “This isn't my fault.”
“That’s my girl.”
The corner of his lip quirks up in a proud little smile just for you.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he says.
“You’re here now,” you whisper.
Jason leans in and kisses your forehead.
“Damn right I am.”
He glances toward the door the guy vanished through, then back at you.
“If he even looks at you again,” he says, voice low, “he’s not walking. Like, ever.”
You huff a soft laugh, the first real one, and he smiles at the sound.
Jason wraps an arm around your shoulders this time—holding you close, not just guarding you, but keeping you warm. You bury your face in his chest and let his comforting scent wash over you. The smell of home.
He nudges you gently toward a table, like he’s steering a ship back to harbor.
“Come on, sit. Drink your sugary, overpriced caffeine. I’ll be right here the whole time."
You sit, finally, and Jason doesn’t let go. His thigh brushes yours under the table. His hand stays tucked around the back of your chair.
You sip your drink slowly. It's lukewarm by now, but somehow still tastes better than it would’ve without him next to you. His leg is pressed to yours under the table, solid and steady. Like an anchor, keeping you from drifting too far out.
Jason’s thumb brushes the back of your hand where it rests on the table, slow and absent like he’s not even thinking about it—but you know he is. Jason thinks about everything. Especially you.
“I like your socks,” he says after a while. Voice low, coaxing. “The little strawberries. That’s new.”
You glance down. Smile faintly. “Bought them last week.”
He hums, leaning in until his shoulder brushes yours. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve worn mine too.”
“You don’t have strawberry socks.”
“Don’t underestimate how far I’d go to match you.”
The laugh you let out comes from your chest this time. A real one. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he shifts just slightly to let you settle there.
When you finish your drink, Jason takes the empty cup from your hands and tosses it for you.
“You ready to go?”
You nod, still leaning into him. “Only if we can stop to get books at the library.”
His hand finds yours again. Squeezes. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
And for the first time that morning, you feel safe again.