The loud, piercing soundtrack from the hallway startles me from my slumber. "I would love to know how he succeeded in being so irritating!" In a swift motion, I shed my cozy pajamas and slipped into my clothes. I burst out of the room, clad in a casual t-shirt and shorts.
As I step into the living room, the atmosphere envelops me. I direct my gaze toward two disheveled figures, glistening with perspiration, sprawled on the couch. "In the name of all that is holy to you, what are you doing?" I shout, recoiling at their sharp intakes of breath as they hurriedly try to shield themselves. "Who is she, Jason?" the brunette inquires, her finger jabbing in my direction. "That's Marie, my roommate," he states, adjusting his stance. "Oh, I see." "Could you please grant us some privacy?" she inquires.
A soft laugh escapes me "Are you referring to yourself or to me?" I asked, my arms tightly crossed over my chest. "I mean you," she states.
"In my opinion, I believe you are the one destined to exit this room," I declare, a wicked smirk playing on my lips. Jason lets out a soft, amused laugh. "And what are you laughing at?" casting a piercing glare at Jason.
"Leave immediately," he shouts. "Who?" the brunette and I exclaim in unison.
"I mean you, Clover," he declares, his voice sharp and deliberate. "Are you serious?" she exclaims, her hands flung dramatically into the air. I pivoted, allowing her the space she needed as she slipped into her clothes. "Alright, step out, Clover," he commands, his voice resonating with a deep authority.
What a display of arrogance it is for him to believe he can engage intimately with someone and then treat them in such a dismissive manner. I have a sense of sympathy for this brunette, known as Clover. "It is Claire." The sound of the door closing echoed in the silence.
"You are so disgusting, pig," I say.
"So full of attitude," he remarks with a playful grin. I tilt my head back slightly, my eyes narrowing in disbelief as he approaches me. He gently cradles my chin, raising my face to meet his gaze.
A fluttering sensation swirled in my stomach, but the recollection of him moaning that brunette's name surged back to me—and it was not even the right one.
This boy is truly repulsive! His gaze drifts from my lips to my eyes, a fleeting moment of connection. He leans in, and a burst of laughter spills forth from his lips. "Did you really believe I would lean in and kiss you?" He expresses it with a light-hearted chuckle. "You are so pathetic," I say.
______________________________________________
I went to bed, fully aware of what awaited me beyond the cloak of sleep. The nightmare always came—never late, never kind—but I tried not to think about it. Not tonight. I shut my eyes and let the silence pull me under.
And just like that, I was there again.
My dream house, once a sanctuary, stood proud before me, but something was different. The colors seemed muted, the edges sharper. The innocence I once knew had long slipped away. I wasn't a child anymore. I was eighteen now. I had changed. But the house hadn't. Not really.
Then came the fire.
It started like always — fast and furious — as if it had been waiting for my arrival. The flames roared to life, greedy and wild, licking up the walls and swallowing the rooms whole. The air grew thick with smoke, with memory. I tried to move, to run, but nothing happened.
I froze.
Every inch of me turned to stone — stiff and unmoving, like the Statue of Liberty, raised in silent defiance. My limbs tingled with useless energy, a strange electricity buzzing through my arms and legs, but I couldn't react. I couldn't even scream. My body refused.
The fire advanced.
I could feel the heat creeping closer, curling around me like an invisible serpent. My heart pounded against my ribs, each beat more frantic than the last. I wanted to cry, to yell, to do something, but all I had was silence. And then— just like always—the child appeared. The same small figure, face cloaked in shadow, voice thin but urgent.
"Marie," they called. "Marie, wake up."
Their voice grew louder and sharper, cutting through the flames and slicing into my stillness. "Wake up!"
I shot upright in bed, lungs heaving, drenched in sweat. My scream caught halfway in my throat, trembling on the edge. My heart was racing, thundering like it wanted out of my chest.
Jason was already by my side.
"Marie, are you alright?" His voice was calm, but his eyes searched my face, reading the fear I couldn't hide.
"I... I found myself completely immobilized," I said, my voice hoarse and small.
He nodded once. "Hold on, I'll get you a glass of water."
He slipped out quietly, leaving a strange stillness behind. I sat there, breathing in the dark, clinging to the edge of reality. Minutes dragged by—ten, twenty, maybe more—until the door creaked open again. Jason returned with a glass in hand. Without a word, he passed it to me. I took it, my fingers brushing his. The water was cold, blessedly cold. I drank in slow, desperate sips, as if it could wash away the lingering flames.
"Thank you," I murmured.
He gave a small nod, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips — not out of amusement, but understanding.
And just like that, the nightmare drifted further into the shadows. Still there. Still waiting. But, for the moment... quiet.
Jason lingered by the edge of the bed, like he wasn't sure if he should sit or leave. I kept my eyes on the glass, watching tiny ripples shift in the water — the last traces of my trembling hands.
"Are you okay?" he asked again, quieter this time. Less out of concern, more like he wasn't sure if I wanted him to ask.
"I think so," I said, although it sounded more like a plea than a statement. I didn't mean to sound so desperate, but I couldn't help it. My voice cracked in the middle, betraying me.
"Please don't leave," I added, barely louder than a whisper. "I… I can't sleep alone right now."
With a long sigh, he expressed his conflict between logic and something softer. But then he nodded.
"Alright."
A wash of relief flowed through me, too swiftly to hide. I shifted, making space, as he settled next to me. He didn't say much. He moved with quiet precision, rearranging the pillow and sliding under the blanket next to me. The mattress dipped with his weight, and for a moment, we just lay there, breathing in sync.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, "Jason. I'm Jason Gravano."
I turned my head to look at him, confused. "You can call me by my name now," he added with a crooked grin.
That boyish charm, even now, surprised me. A laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. "Thank you," I whispered.
We lay there in silence. His body was warm beside mine. The kind of warmth that made me feel anchored, not suffocated. I felt him shift slightly, then his arm moved around my waist, hesitant at first, but firm. My head rested against his shoulder without even thinking about it.
"You feeling okay?" he murmured.
I turned toward him slightly, meeting his gaze in the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. "Not really."
He didn't say anything. He simply drew me nearer. I could feel his breath on my skin, steady and quiet.
"Goodnight, Marie," he said softly.
"Goodnight, Jason."
There was something unfamiliar about how easily I let go, how quickly my fear gave way to the slow comfort of sleep, like it had been waiting for this moment. In the past, I would lie awake for hours, bracing myself for the next nightmare. But now, with Jason's arm slung over my waist, with his warmth pressed against my back, I felt... calm.
And that was the strangest part.
I drifted off before I could question it too much.
________________________________________________________
I leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching Jason fumble through the bags like a man who'd never cooked a proper meal in his life yet insisted on being in charge. I didn't say a word—I just watched. Something about his chaotic energy was strangely comforting. Even when he was being absolutely insufferable.
The way he moved, unbothered and confident, made me wonder if anything truly rattled him. I remembered the night before—the warmth of his arm around my waist, the quiet cadence of his breath on the back of my neck, and how easily he'd lulled me into sleep as if he'd done it a thousand times before.
And then… this morning. Clover—or Claire, or whatever her name was.
I clenched my jaw, still annoyed by the scene I'd walked into. But more than that, I hated the sting of disappointment that had crept up on me. I wasn't supposed to care. I barely knew this boy. Yet here I was—jealous of someone who was barely even dressed.
Jason glanced up from the bag of spinach he'd just ripped open like it personally offended him. "You know," he said casually, "if you keep staring at me like that, I'm going to start charging rent for my body."
I rolled my eyes. "Please. If I were paying for that body, I'd ask for a refund."
He grinned, clearly unfazed. "Ah, there she is. Queen of sass."
"More like queen of tolerance," I muttered, reaching for a tomato to help. "And your cooking skills are definitely on trial."
"You'll love it. I make a mean pasta," he said, holding up the box like it was a trophy.
"I'm already scared."
He snorted, turning back to the stove. I watched him move; he was less flirtatious now and more focused. He looked... worn out. Like he hadn't slept well; obviously that was because of me. I shouldn't have let him sleep in my bed.
"I don't trust you near heat sources," I said instead, trying to lighten the mood. "You'll probably burn this place down."
He shot me a look over his shoulder. "Too soon, Marie."
I stiffened. He hadn't meant it—he couldn't have—but the words hit harder than they should have. The memory of the flames came rushing back like a tidal wave. I was back in that house again, stuck, silent, watching it all burn down. Jason must have noticed the shift in my face. He paused, the playful spark in his eyes dimming. "Hey," he said gently, setting the pasta down. "I didn't mean that."
I nodded, forcing a smile I didn't feel. "I know."
He turned off the stove and walked over, wiping his hands on a towel. "You don't have to talk about it," he said. "But I'm here. If you ever want to."
I looked up at him. For a moment, he wasn't the sarcastic flirt or the reckless boy with girls on his couch. He was just Jason, the guy who held me when I couldn't sleep and whispered goodnight like it meant something.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
He nodded, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Now, go sit down before you sabotage my cooking with your energy."
"Oh, please. If this recipe turns out edible, I'll tattoo your name on my ankle."
He grinned. "Don't tempt me."
I walked to the table, letting my fingers trail across the wood, feeling... lighter. I felt a slight sense of relief.
Whatever Jason was hiding—whatever weird connection we had, whatever pieces of my past still refused to surface—I knew one thing for certain: life with him would never be quiet. Never simple. Never safe.
But maybe… maybe that's precisely what I needed.