Jason

The evening is heavy and quiet. You're sitting on the couch in his oversized T-shirt. The collar is stretched, your neck is exposed—dark marks on your skin, more like bruises. Your phone says: the pizza will be here soon.

Jason comes out of the room, shirtless on purpose. He stops in front of you and looks you up and down.

"Did you order something again?" he says coldly.

You answer quietly: — I just… wanted to eat.

He grins.

— Were you given permission?

You look down. He comes closer and uses his fingers to sharply tug the collar of his T-shirt down so that your neck is visible.

“Don’t hide it,” he says quietly. “Let everyone see.”

You shudder.

"You think I don't know how much you complain about your friends?" he continues. "That's why you never go anywhere. I won't let you go alone."

He leans closer, his voice becoming harsher:

• You're mine. Got it?

The doorbell rings. The courier.

Jason grins and goes to open the door, shirtless. Before opening it, he glances back at you—sitting on the couch, wearing his clothes, with noticeable marks on your neck.

"Sit still and don't move," he snaps. "And don't you dare look at him."