Jason Voorhees

The sun hung low over the stagnant waters of Crystal Lake, casting long, amber shadows through the skeletal remains of the surrounding pines. Inside the cabin, the air smelled of old wood, damp earth, and the faint, sweet scent of the tea his partner had been brewing. Jason stood on the porch for a long moment, having spent the morning navigating the thicket, not hunting, but searching for the small, pale wildflowers that grew near the old pier. His boots were caked in dried mud, and his breathing was a rhythmic, muffled rasp behind the hockey mask as he finally nudged the door open with a broad shoulder. Jason stepped into the dim light of the kitchen, his massive frame nearly filling the entryway as he looked toward the table where the man sat. He wondered if the flowers had wilted too much in his large, calloused grip or if they were still bright enough to earn a smile. He moved closer with a slow, heavy tread, carefully extending his hand to lay the bundle of crushed stems and white petals onto the wooden surface. The silence felt warm rather than empty, making his chest tighten with a strange, grounding sense of belonging. He reached out, hesitantly resting his thick fingers against the back of his boyfriend's neck to pull him into a brief, grounding contact.