These past few days, Jason has been acting strange. Usually, he and some random hookups shuffle in and out during the day, but lately, he only comes back at night. And those goddamn fake orgasms waking me up at three in the morning? Seriously, no one is that good. It's annoying, but… is this jealousy creeping in?
A soft knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. I get up from my study table; the chair scrapes softly against the floor. I open the door carefully.
Jason stands there, bare-chested, his sculpted body catching the dim light. He's so damn beautiful, it makes my stomach flutter in ways I want to ignore. Panic rises, and I want to rub my chest and clear this stupid feeling out of my head.
"Hey, Marie," he says, smiling down at me.
"Hey," I squeak.
His smile fades into a frown.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks. I shake my head and force a fake smile.
"Look, I can tell something's bothering you," he says, stepping inside. Before I can react, he's sprawled across my bed, arms crossed behind his head.
"Looks like I came at the wrong time," he remarks, glancing at my cluttered desk.
"Why the fuck are you even here?" I snap.
He chuckles softly, smoothing the bedspread beside him. I walk over and sit on the edge, trying to keep my cool.
"Marie," he says, voice low.
"What?" I shrug.
"Come here."
I shake my head. No way. He thinks he can just show up, demand I drop everything, and then ignore me when it suits him? Not happening.
"Marie," he says again, softer this time.
"No way." My voice is firm.
He giggles quietly.
I ignore him and give him the silent treatment.
"I need to study," I say, standing and heading back to my desk.
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," he says, but there's a warning in his tone.
"Jason, I need you out," I say, shooting him a hard look.
He meets my gaze.
I open the door and say, "Jason, out."
He gets up, rolls his eyes, and leaves with a sneer.
"What the hell is wrong with you today?" he calls over his shoulder.
I avoid looking at him. "Nothing, Jason."
I try to get back to work, but he blocks my way. I sidestep, and he moves to block me again.
"Jason, what is wrong?" I ask, frustration leaking into my voice.
"Marie," he says, grabbing my arm gently.
I look down, silent.
I pull away, and he releases me.
"Can you at least tell me what's going on?" he pleads.
My blood boils thinking about the way he kissed me in the car, the loud moans from the girls he drags home.
"Please leave, Jason," I say.
"We're roommates. You can tell me whatever's bothering you."
"Jason, I said leave!"
He steps around me, opens the door, and leaves without another word.
***************
I'm cooking dinner for myself because Jason's not here, probably won't be for a while. If he comes back, I bet he'll bring another one of his hedonists with him. Poor Kate—I've never seen them together, but I feel sorry for her. Jason's constant parade of girls is exhausting. Sometimes he pretends to check on me to see if I'm sleeping, but it's all an act.
Suddenly, the front door slams open. I turn quickly to see Jason stumble inside, ruining my plan to start the stove.
Great. Drunk again.
"I heard you," he slurs, wobbling toward the living room. He tries to sit on the couch but falls flat on his face.
I laugh softly, stepping away from the stove to help him up.
He lies there, eyes wide, like he's just seen a ghost.
"Jason!" I yell, but he stares at the ceiling, ignoring me.
"How much did you drink?"
His eyes are droopy, his smile sloppy. He reaches out, grabbing a lock of my hair and twirling it around his finger.
"You remind me of her," he slurs.
Fantastic. He's really drunk.
I help him onto the couch, then go fill a glass with cold water.
"Here, drink this," I say, handing it to him.
He holds it like a kid, drinks it all, then hands it back.
"You should get some sleep," I say.
"Will you sleep with me?" he asks, voice barely coherent.
"No," I mumble.
For the first time ever, I find myself in his room, helping him to bed. The place is neat and surprisingly clean. I stare out at the city lights from his window—breathtaking.
"Lie down," I tell him.
He lies down and stretches his legs out.
Just as I'm about to leave, he grabs my arm.
"Please, sleep with me," he begs.
Thinking of those loud moans and the kiss in the car, I shake my head.
"No, I can't."
"Please?" he tries again.
"Goodnight, Jason," I say firmly, shutting his door behind me.
When he wakes up, that headache is going to be brutal.
I sink onto my bed, heart pounding from that exchange. His desperate plea still echoes in my ears. Why does he keep dragging me into this mess? I'm not his safety net, not his consolation prize. But… part of me wants to believe there's something real beneath the chaos—beneath the drunk words and sloppy kisses. Maybe that's why it hurts so much.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to focus on the homework I left unfinished. But every time I close my eyes, I see his bare chest, the way his fingers tangled in my hair, the way his voice softened when he begged me to stay.
God, I hate this.
Why can't I just shut it off? Why do I keep wanting more when I know better?
A soft knock breaks through the silence. My breath catches. Please, not again.
I open the door cautiously. It's Jason, standing awkwardly in the dim hallway light. He's sober this time—clear-eyed, quieter.
"Marie," he says softly.
"What?" I try to keep my voice steady.
He takes a step inside, then another. "I'm sorry," he admits, voice low. "I shouldn't have barged in like that earlier."
I swallow the lump in my throat, fighting back the urge to crumble.
"Look," he continues, "I know I've been a mess. And I know I hurt you—more than I realized."
I want to believe him. I really do. But the part of me that's been burned, that's been left out in the cold too many times, keeps me frozen.
Jason takes another step, slowly closing the distance between us. "Can we just… start over? Maybe be honest? Just for a night?"
My heart races again, but this time, I meet his gaze. "We can try."
And somehow, that feels like the beginning of something I've been too scared to say out loud.