Chapter Text
The museum cafeteria was quiet that day, late enough in the lunch hour that most of the interns had scattered. The tall windows let in strips of watery light, grey against the tiled floor. Outside, the trees shivered faintly in the wind, leaves scraped half-clean by the season.
Lara sat near the back, her tray arranged with quiet precision. Simple roast, greens, a cup of black tea cooling slowly at her elbow. She’d changed after the morning’s climb demo—hair pulled back again, sleeves rolled just enough to keep chalk off the cuffs.
Jordan dropped into the seat across from her without asking.
“I picked you a better table,” he said. “Less foot traffic. Better lighting. You’re welcome.”
“You were following me.”
“I was observing the migration patterns of reclusive British birds. You happened to be one of them.”
Lara didn’t smile. Not properly. But her gaze lifted just slightly, meeting his across the plate.
“You always talk this much?”
“Only when I’m flirting.”
She stirred her tea, calm. “That wasn’t a question.”
“I noticed.” He leaned in a little. “You’re hard to read. I like that.”
“I’m not trying to be liked.”
Jordan gave her a look—not frustrated, not disarmed. Just steady.
“Then tell me to back off. For real.”
She watched him carefully. Her tone didn’t shift.
“I would if I needed to.”
His lips pulled into a faint grin. “That a warning?”
“That’s a fact.”
Jordan sat back, let the moment breathe. Around them, chairs scraped. Cutlery clinked.
He lowered his voice a notch. “Look, I know you’re dealing with something. That guy you’ve got staying with you. I don’t need to know the details. But I see it.”
Lara’s gaze didn’t change. But she stilled, slightly.
“I’m not asking for anything from you,” he said. “I’m just saying if you ever want a break from all that quiet tension and shadowy ex-mercenary heat, I’m here. In daylight. With proper meals.”
She tilted her head, just enough to signal amusement beneath the stillness.
“That’s your angle? Stability?”
“I’m a walking HR-compliant fantasy, Lara. That’s rare these days.”
A pause. Her fingers tapped the edge of her teacup once.
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“You didn’t say no.”
She stood then, picking up her tray.
“I didn’t say yes.”
---
By the time she got home, the sky had dimmed into early dusk. The lights in the lower corridor were on, low and warm, throwing quiet shapes against the floor.
Jason wasn’t in the kitchen. Not in the study. The manor had settled into one of its holding patterns—stillness, corners of sound behind closed doors.
She moved upstairs, slow. Listening. Not expecting.
—
The house had gone quiet again. A calm sort of hush, not emptiness—just the pause of things settling into routine. The oven ticked softly in the kitchen, its heat bleeding into the corners of the room, turning the cold stone floor a little warmer underfoot. Somewhere above, water ran in the pipes—Jason, showering late.
Lara was setting the table in the kitchen again. Same two chairs. Same quiet attention to detail. She’d used cloth napkins this time—nothing fancy, just simple, folded once. The chicken rested on a wooden board beside the stove. Steamed greens in a bowl. Something about the rhythm of it steadied her.
The water stopped.
A few minutes later, she heard his steps on the stairs. Slower than usual. She didn’t look up right away.
Jason stepped into the kitchen, one hand braced on the doorway. His hair was wet, darker than usual, pushed back from his forehead. He wore a fitted black sweater over clean sweats, sleeves half-rolled. He looked more like himself again—but with that lingering edge, the shadow of exhaustion still caught around the eyes.
“Smells good,” he said.
Lara poured water into two glasses. “It should. I actually tried this time.”
Jason eased down into the chair opposite her with care. The limp was still there, subtle but telling. He didn't comment on it. Neither did she.
“You’re eating?” she asked, setting his plate in front of him.
“I will.”
“Good.”
They began quietly. Cutlery moved. The low hum of the oven fan filled the room. Lara didn’t rush, and Jason didn’t force conversation. When he ate, it was slowly, deliberately, like his body still hadn’t decided whether to accept it.
She caught him watching her once—nothing sharp in it. Just observation.
“Better than yesterday,” he said.
“The food?”
“My head.”
She nodded. “You look better.”
“I’m trying to be.”
The knocking came before the next bite did. “I got it.” Jason stood with unexpected speed - still slower than Lara. “Sit. I'll go.”
She walked up to the entryway and up to the door, unlocked it and opened.
Said nothing.
Jordan stood on the threshold, backlit by the last of the winter dusk. The collar of his jacket was turned up slightly, hands in his pockets, face calm—but alert, like he wasn’t sure how this would go.
“Hey. I was nearby,” he said, not pushing. “Thought I’d take a chance.”
Her hand remained on the doorframe. “Jordan. You didn’t text.”
“Didn’t want to be easy to ignore.”
She glanced behind her once, then stepped aside without ceremony.
Jason was halfway down the hall, socked feet, one hand on the wall as he moved with practiced caution. He wore that same grey t-shirt from sleep. His eyes met Jordan’s briefly, but there was no change in his face.
No challenge.
Just the cool, silent weight of awareness.
Jordan’s expression shifted, just slightly. Professional instinct kicking in.
He stepped inside.
Jason kept moving toward the kitchen without a word, neither fast nor slow, just as steady as he could manage. Lara let the door close behind them, locking it softly.
Jordan took in the house—the details, the warmth from the kitchen, the smell of food still fresh on the air. His eyes passed over the second chair pulled out from the small kitchen table. The napkins. The already-poured water.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asked, voice quieter now.
Lara didn’t answer him immediately. She walked past him into the kitchen.
Jason had already taken his seat again, his plate in front of him. He was eating—not performative, not polite. Just focused. Like the arrival hadn’t registered.
Or like it didn’t matter.
Lara moved to the third drawer, pulled out another plate.
“Sit,” she said to Jordan, flat. “You made the trip.”
Jordan hesitated only a second, then took the third chair—side of the table, not opposite anyone. Not trying to insert himself between.
The three of them sat there for a moment in quiet.
Jason chewed. Drank water. His gaze passed over Jordan once, then returned to his plate. The silence didn’t seem to bother him.
Lara passed the serving bowl toward Jordan without speaking.
He took it, dishing quietly, watching them both.
“This smells incredible,” he said eventually.
Jason made no sound.
Lara nodded faintly. “It’s not bad.”
Jordan took a bite. “You’ve got range. I didn’t take you for someone who could cook.”
“I adapt.”
Her tone wasn’t defensive, but it left nothing open.
Jordan glanced across the table at Jason again. “We haven’t met.”
Jason looked up at last, eyes steady. “No.”
“I’m Jordan.”
“Jason.”
Another beat.
Jordan offered a brief nod. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Jason returned the nod. “Don't worry about it.”
That was all.
Jordan glanced once at Lara, searching for the rhythm here. Trying to gauge the current. Her expression told him nothing.
The meal went on.
No raised voices.
No tension spilled.
But it sat there—thin and quiet—under the sound of silverware on ceramic, the soft hum of the oven fan behind them, the low rhythm of three people who didn’t quite fit at the same table.
Jason didn’t push, didn’t speak again.
But he watched—quietly, without claiming space—while Lara passed Jordan the salt. While Jordan leaned slightly toward her when he spoke. While she answered, brief, low-voiced, without smiling.
When the meal was over, Jason stood, picked up his plate, and rinsed it in the sink. His movements were slow, deliberate. Muscle memory, not thought.
He didn’t say goodbye.
Just left the kitchen, bare footsteps fading down the hall.
Piss stop.
-
In the bathroom, he noticed something. A hair clip. Clearly not his. He picked it up, it was beige with a little brown, glass butterfly holding it together.
By the time he passed her room, he stepped in and put in on her bed, right in the middle of it. Went back downstairs.
By the time Jason had limped back to the kitchen, Jordan was still seated.
The air had settled, but the atmosphere hadn’t softened. The plates were cleared, save for Lara’s water glass and the serving bowl she hadn’t moved. She stood near the counter now, arms loosely crossed, weight leaned to one side like she might have just finished saying something—or hadn’t quite decided to.
Jason stepped through without pause. Not slow, but not looking for anyone’s permission, either.
He crossed to the far end of the room, opened the fridge without comment. Pulled a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, drank.
Jordan didn’t look at him directly, but he spoke.
“You’ve been here a while?”
Jason let the bottle lower. “Little over two weeks.”
“Croft Manor,” Jordan said. “That’s a rare invitation.”
Jason met his eyes. "I wa'nt invited."
Jordan studied him for a second, then gave a slow nod. “Right.”
Jason took another sip, eyes unreadable. The bottle clicked gently as he set it on the counter. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain. It wasn’t apology—it was fact. One he’d accepted long before stepping through the door.
Lara moved then, only slightly. A shift of her stance as she unfolded her arms, stepped past them both, and rinsed her glass in the sink.
Jordan watched her hands. The way she moved. Controlled. Intimate with the space.
“You take care of everyone this way?” he asked, tone light, but not empty.
Lara didn’t answer right away. Then, over her shoulder, “No.”
Jordan waited. Nothing more came.
He looked back at Jason, not confrontational, just curious. Trying to locate the thread.
“You military?”
Jason’s jaw flexed once. “Mh-hm. Why?"
Jordan shrugged lightly, resting a forearm along the back of the chair he’d just stepped away from. “You carry it. The stillness. The way you listen before you move.”
Jason’s expression didn’t change, but the silence stretched a beat longer this time. He leaned heavier into the counter, fingers absently tapping the bottle near its base.
“Not many people notice that,” he said.
“I’ve been around it before,” Jordan replied. “That kind of quiet doesn’t come from peace.”
Lara turned off the tap with a slow twist, dried her hands again, this time more deliberately. Neither man looked at her.
Jason nodded once, slow. “Fair enough.”
Then Jordan stepped back from the chair. “I should go.”
Lara let the napkin hit the counter with a soft thud. “You can stay for a bit.”
Jordan paused, half-turned, one hand still resting on the chair back.
“You can stay for a bit,” Lara said again, not repeating herself, just reaffirming.
He looked at her. Then at Jason. Then sat.
Jason didn’t react—no nod, no look. He just moved to the far wall, near the window. Rested his back against the cold stone, one ankle bent, foot against the baseboard. He sipped his water and let the silence reassert itself.
Lara picked up the napkins, folding them with precision before tucking them into the drawer. Her movements were practiced, steady. Jordan watched her—not openly, not pointed—but his eyes tracked the small things. Her hands. The way she moved around the kitchen like she belonged there. The faint furrow between her brows when she rinsed something too long.
He leaned on the table with one forearm, loose, casual. Not pressing.
“You ever take a break?” he asked.
She glanced over. “From what?”
“Everything.”
Lara gave a small shrug. “I go climbing.”
“That’s exercise. Not rest.”
“It’s both.”
Jordan smirked faintly. “You ever sit on a beach somewhere and do nothing?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Sand.” Lara huffed, amusedly.
Jason let out the faintest exhale. Could’ve been a snort. Could’ve been nothing.
Jordan glanced at him. “You disagree?”
Jason’s voice came level, mild. “Sand’s a bastard.”
Lara didn’t smile. But her shoulders shifted, just slightly. Less guarded.
Jordan tilted his head. “You two ever go anywhere? Like, not war zones or whatever?”
Jason took a slow sip of water, considering. “Uhh.. Yamatai, Auroa.. Peru and Madagascar. Over the span of.. 7 years, or 6."
Jordan lifted his eyebrows, slow. “That’s not a vacation list. That’s a trauma speedrun.”
Jason shrugged, the barest lift of one shoulder. “Depends who you ask.”
“And if I asked her?” Jordan’s eyes flicked toward Lara, testing.
She didn’t look up from the plate she was drying. “It wasn’t sightseeing.”
Jordan leaned back slightly in the chair. “So what were you two? Partners?”
Jason answered before she could. “I never gave it a thought. We met because of an SOS she sent from this weird ass island, we responded and she thought me and my friend were useful enough to call us back to make bodyguards out of us.” Jason sounded amused. “And that's the end of it.”
Jordan’s brow ticked up, just slightly. “That sounds… deeply professional.”
“It was,” Jason said, unbothered. “Right up until it wasn’t.”
Lara didn’t interrupt. She reached for the last bowl, rinsed it under warm water. Her back to them, but her posture told its own story—one of restraint, not indifference.
Jordan crossed his arms lightly. “And when did it stop being professional?”
Jason gave a quiet exhale, almost a huff of thought. “When our families came back from their long ass vacation." Lara turned from the counter, meeting Jason's eyes with profoundness and confusion.
Lara’s eyes stayed on Jason for a second longer—sharp, searching—but whatever thought had sparked behind them, she didn’t voice it. Instead, she turned back to the counter and reached for the drawer, retrieving a fresh towel like nothing had been said at all.
Jordan watched the exchange, quiet now. No smirk. No quip. Just the faint crease between his brows as he tracked the silence building in the room like weather.
Lara dried the last plate with care. Each movement precise, deliberate. Her back still to him.
“Look,” Jordan said after a beat, voice low. “I wasn’t trying to pry.”
“You weren’t trying not to,” she replied, flat.
He stepped in slightly—just a foot closer, not enough to breach anything. “You’ve got someone living here with a limp and a military stare. You show up to lunch with chalk on your sleeves and leave without finishing your tea. I ask questions because I don’t have answers, and that’s not something I’m good at sitting with.”
Lara set the plate down. Clean. Bone white. Perfect.
She turned.
“Then don’t sit with it.”
Jordan’s jaw moved, working around whatever instinct came first. He didn’t look wounded, just… held there. Caught between fight and retreat.
“I like you,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
“I know I’m not owed anything. I just… I want to be around, and I want to understand what I’m stepping into before I get dragged under by it.”
Still, no reaction.
Not from Lara.
“Should I..” Jason started. “Should I leave you space?”
Lara turned. “Thank you, Jason.”
The American nodded, and limped out of the kitchen.
Jordan didn’t move. Not quite.
He stood there, weight shifted onto the balls of his feet, not retreating—but not relaxed, either. His eyes tracked Lara’s hands again as she folded the towel, as if that single motion might offer a map to all the parts of her she refused to say aloud.
She didn’t glance up.
He cleared his throat, gently. “So is that a no?”
Lara didn’t answer right away.
She placed the towel precisely beside the sink. Turned off the overhead light, leaving just the under-cabinet glow. Her voice came quieter now, but not softer.
“Jordan, I'm not interested.” A pause. “You're sweet, but you’re not the kind of quiet I need.”
She said it without venom, without apology—like reading a line from a chart, factual, unchanging. Her hands rested lightly on the counter, fingers splayed like she might push off from it at any second, but didn’t.
Jordan stood very still.
For a second, it was like air pressure shifted. That faint compression of space when someone decides not to pretend.
He nodded slowly. Not a flinch, not even wounded—just absorbing.
“Alright,” he said. No bitterness. Just the faint rasp of something honest catching in his throat. “That’s clear.”
She gave him a look then—real, level, almost gentle. “You deserved that much.”
Jordan exhaled once, through his nose. “More than most give.”
He moved toward the doorway with no rush. Picked up his coat from the chairback where he’d draped it. Slid it on, smooth. Then paused, glancing once toward the shadowed hall Jason had disappeared into.
“He’s not what I expected,” Jordan said.
Lara didn’t move. “Neither are you.”
That got a faint, lopsided smile. Tired around the edges. “Guess none of us are.”
She didn’t answer that.
At the threshold, Jordan glanced back once. “Take care of yourself, Lara.”
Then he left.
The sound of the front door opening, closing, and the soft click of the lock followed.
Lara didn’t move. Just stood there, lit by the under-glow of the cabinets, the kitchen quietly breathing around her.
Then—faint steps. A shift in the hallway.
Jason didn’t announce himself. Didn’t fill the silence.
He just leaned one shoulder into the archway, and whistled. "Pheeww, tough watch!"
"Jason.”
Jason raised both hands slightly, like surrendering. “Just sayin’. That was a clean kill. No hesitation.”
Lara shot him a look over her shoulder, but there was no real heat in it. Just the kind of exhaustion that comes from being honest too many times in one day.
He pushed off the doorway, limping slow into the kitchen proper, his voice lighter now. “You want me to pretend I didn’t hear any of that?”
“I want you to drink water, stretch, and sit the hell down before your knee gives out,” she said flatly.
He said nothing and did as told.
Lara finally turned to face him fully. Her arms were still crossed, but her posture had softened a little, like the tension was starting to bleed out of her shoulders.
Jason made it to the same chair he’d left earlier, the one furthest from the oven. He sank into it with a grunt and let out a long breath. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, fingers brushing the still-damp edge of his hair.
“I mean.. it looks weird. To someone who comes here to confess he's head over heels? Seeing *me*? Damn, I'd feel sorry.”
She huffed. “Jason, please. Just sit down and shut up.”
“Ight..”
Jason raised both hands again, this time in mock surrender. “Shuttin’ up. Sitting down. Limping quietly into the sunset.”
He let himself lean back in the chair, knees angled out, hands draped over the armrests like he wasn’t entirely sure whether to settle or brace. The fatigue showed—beneath the charm, under the jokes. He’d been holding himself straight for too many hours in a row.
Lara watched him a beat longer than necessary, then crossed to the cupboard, pulled down a clean mug. Her back was to him as she filled the kettle, the quiet clatter of routine settling around them again.
Jason broke it—softly.
“You're doing that thing.”
“What thing?” she said without turning.
“That thing where you tell someone to shut up, but it’s code for ‘don’t say that because I might agree and that’s annoying’.”
She glanced back just long enough to raise an eyebrow. “Don’t test me.”
He smiled. Lazy. Wry. “Not testing. Just... watching the wildlife.”
“Jason.”
“Ma’am..”
She poured boiling water into the mug, dropped in a bag—same tea from earlier. No sugar. No milk. Just black, bitter, and hot enough to bite. She set it on the table in front of him without fanfare.
Jason looked at it like it might explode. “You made me tea?”
“You’re under my roof. That’s the deal.”
He tilted his head. “What deal?”
“I feed you. You don’t bleed on the floors. We don’t talk about it.”
Jason gave a soft laugh—short, but real. “That is a very Lara Croft kind of deal.”
She leaned against the counter across from him, arms crossed again—but less defensive this time. Just resting.
“But I didn't get the ‘we don't talk about it’ part. I did my half to bring your parents back, didn't I? I'm not gonna try and seduce you like someone might think..”
“Jason. Drink your tea. I like you better when you shut up.”
He nodded, holding his side, the injured one. “Got it.”
Jason winced faintly as he lifted the mug, the heat curling around his knuckles, his palm cradling it like it might anchor him. He didn’t sip right away—just held it, eyes narrowed at the rising steam, breath shallow from the pressure still blooming in his ribs.
Lara watched him from across the room, arms still folded, but her posture had shifted again. Less fortress, more observation post.
Jason’s voice came low, not quite serious—but not entirely joking either.
“You ever notice you get meaner the nicer you are?”
Lara tilted her head slightly. “You want the tea or not?”
He took a sip finally, wincing. “Jesus. Did you steep this in battery acid?”
“No,” she said. “That’s the Irish Breakfast. This is just pain with a caffeine content.”
Jason grinned around the rim of the mug, teeth flashing. “You know, I think I’m starting to understand why people fall for you.”
Her tone was instant. “Don’t.”
“I’m not trying anything,” he said, shrugging with one shoulder, then immediately regretting it. “I’m just saying... you’re a hard read, but you take care of people like it’s a compulsion.”
Lara didn’t respond.
Jason nodded to himself. “And you hate that about yourself.”
That made her shift slightly—just a fraction. Enough.
“I don’t hate it,” she said. “I just don’t like what people do with it.”
Jason let that settle. Swirled the tea once, absently. His gaze had dropped, but he wasn’t hiding.
“I’m not people,” he said finally.
“No,” she said. “You’re just trouble with better manners.”
He laughed again, quieter this time. A dry rasp of breath. “And you’re good at reading between lines.”
“I’ve had practice.”
They fell into quiet then—an easier one. Nothing coiled underneath it. Just steam and fatigue and the hum of the fridge.
After a long stretch, Jason looked up again. “If you want me to go, just call Dom. He'll get a transfer.”
Lara hesitated.
Her voice came low. “No. You can stay. Just—”
“Just?”
“Don’t make it anything,” she said, finally. “Don’t turn it into a conversation. Just be here.”
Jason blinked, caught between her eyes and the space between them. “Why are you tryina’ treat me like I'm a stranger? I.. should mean to you.”
Lara exhaled through her nose. Her arms crossed, not folded for comfort—braced. Like she was ready for a hit that might not come but would still sting.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” Jason leaned back a little, not like he was relaxing—just shifting, because staying still started to feel like conceding. “Sounded like it.”
“I just don’t have the energy to talk about this tonight, J.”
“That’s not what you said either.” He wasn’t raising his voice, not really. But the pressure behind it had started to build, like air sneaking under a sealed door. “You said don’t make it anything. Like I’m something to avoid.”
She looked at him then, properly. Not just glancing—met his eyes like she was trying to calibrate the force of him in real time. “I’m not avoiding you. I asked you to stay.”
“Yeah. But then you put rules on what that means. I can be here, but don’t mean anything. Sit over there, shut up, don’t take up space—”
“Jesus, Jason, it’s not that literal.”
“No, then what?” he shot back. “It’s vague and polite and half-swallowed like I’m supposed to figure out how not to offend you by existing. Do you want a friend here or do you want a coat rack with opinions?”
Lara made a frustrated sound and turned her back to the counter, arms pressed tighter across her chest. “You always do this. Someone says one thing and suddenly it’s a whole other one.”
“Because you women never say the thing! You skirt it. You wrap it in layers. You tell me to stay but not to be here. Which one is it?”
Her jaw clenched. “It’s both, all right?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well, it’s the one I’ve got,” she snapped. “You're supposed to rest, not.. questioning.”
They stayed there. Not storming. Not screaming. Just stuck in the middle of something thick and raw and annoying. The kind of argument that wasn't about what was said, but how it was heard—and who was tired enough to walk away first.
Jason ran a hand through his hair. “You think I’m waiting to shoot my shot or some shit?” he said, voice quieter now, but more pointed. “That I’m hanging around hoping you’ll look up one night and suddenly decide I’m your next mistake.”
Lara didn’t answer. Her arms stayed locked. Her stare was on his eyes, listening, elbows on the table, hand holding her chin, fingers curled just below her bottom lip.
Jason shook his head, lips twisting into something between amusement and disappointment. “Truth is, you’ve probably got a lineup of guys who’d kill for half your attention. And that one?” He jerked his chin toward the shadowed hall, the one that still carried the smell of somebody else’s shampoo and leftover cologne. “He just had the balls to go all-in and fuck it up properly.”
Still no reply.
He leaned closer, not enough to loom, but enough that she’d have to feel the weight of his voice. “You want space, say that. But don't treat me, of all, like a stranger.”
Lara’s throat moved, a slow swallow. When she spoke, it wasn’t sharp anymore. Just plain. “I don’t know what I need yet.”
“Clearly it ain't that Jordan guy. But I'm not trying to replace him.” He laughs. “I've been dried-up since I became a soldier. I don't even remember what it feels like, I'm not trying to start with you!”
That made her blink. Just once, slow. Like the bluntness caught her off-guard—not the words themselves, but the unvarnished tone of them.
“I didn’t ask you to,” she said finally, still resting on her elbow, fingers sliding across her lower lip like she was thinking through them. “I never did.”
“I know. I just—you keep acting like this is some waiting game I’m losing.” He leaned back a little, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I show up, and somehow that means I want something. But it’s not that. It’s never been that. If Jonah was in my place, you'd hang out and have fun. Me? I limp, alone.”
Lara nodded, once, like she heard him. But she didn’t confirm anything, didn’t offer reassurance. She didn’t owe him that and he knew it.
“You know,” Jason went on, quieter now, “you think too much about what I might want from you, and not enough about the fact that maybe I just… wanna be around. That’s it. That used to be allowed. Because I earned it.”
“It is,” she said. Then softer, “It is.”
He gave a little dry snort. “Coulda fooled me.”
She watched him a while, eyes narrow—not angry, just tight with the effort of holding the mood still. “You’ve been dried-up, huh?”
Jason nodded. “What about it?”
Lara’s mouth pulled to the side, skeptical. “That was a weird thing to volunteer.”
He shrugged. “I figured if we’re gonna treat me like a walking threat to your peace of mind, I might as well clarify I’m too constipated and mentally exhausted to make a move on anybody. Especially you.”
She raised both eyebrows, slow. “That’s… comforting?”
“It is if your worry is me tryin’ weird shit on you,” he said. “Which I couldn't even start without looking real fucking stupid.”
That cracked her composure a little—just a breath that almost turned into a laugh. She pressed her fingers against her lips to flatten it out, but he caught it anyway.
“Ah! There.” he muttered.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“Yeah, sure.” He sighs.
“Maybe.”
He leaned back again, spine creaking against the old chair. “Look, I didn’t come here to get in your head. I came because you asked. You don’t owe me comfort or attention or... anything, really. But I also don’t need to get treated like I’m here waiting to slide into.. what, some emotional opening? Your new job? Your latest expedition? I bet that Chase Carver dude Dom talked to me about tried to replace Jonah. I ain't a worm, Lara. I didn't-”
“Okay, okay, Jason. I got it. It's enough.” She said. He wasn’t wrong. Not totally. And she wasn't mad. Couldn't be, not at him, of all.
Lara dragged her hands down her face. “You’re exhausting.”
Jason laughed, short and sharp, caught somewhere between mocking himself and enjoying the fallout. “No, I’m a real one,” he said, like it was a punchline that deserved more swagger than he had in the tank. Then he cringed at his own delivery, dragging a hand down his face. “That.. sounded cooler in my head.”
Lara cracked up, sudden and full. “God, you’re so dumb.”
“I know,” he said, eyes closing like he was absorbing the shame. “Let me die in peace.”
“Absolutely not.” She leaned forward across the table like she was about to bury him further, chin in her palm, voice dry. “You just called yourself a ‘real one’ and expected it to land.”
Jason groaned, head tipping back against the wall. “Didn't. And can I go back to being the emotionally constipated soldier now? That role was safer.”
“Barely.”
He smirked. “Still not tryin’ weird shit on you, though. Can barely stand..”
“Good,” she said. “Because if you start, I’ll throw your dry arse off the highest balcony.”
“You couldn’t even walk me to the bathroom.”
“Bet.”
They stared at each other for a beat, the tension drained enough now to let the silence breathe between them without snapping. “I can't either, if that consoles you.”
She smirked again, then looked away with a busy sigh.
Then Lara stood up and grabbed the last can of something out of the fridge—didn’t check the label, didn’t offer one to him. She cracked it open and took a long sip before tossing it on the counter with a clunk.
“You’re taking the floor.”
Jason blinked. “What? What happened to my room?”
“Penalty for that ‘real one’ bullshit.”
“Harsh.”
“Fair,” she said, already walking toward the staircase. “There’s an extra pillow in the dryer. Don’t drool on it.”
Jason called after her as he followed. “That’s how I mark my territory!”
“No one wants that information!” She called from the start of the hallway.
And then she was gone, the door to her room clicking shut a second later.
Jason stood there for a moment longer, a hand supporting him against the hallway frame, looking in Lara's room's direction.