Roy Harper happend

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All Jason wanted was a cozy evening with you on his couch watching some show he claimed to hate — then Roy happened.

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Jason had exactly fifteen seconds of peace.

You were on the couch, finally curled under his arm with your legs draped over his lap, the glow of some half-watched show playing in the background. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to finish one full inhale of that *you smell like home* kind of moment before—

*Bang.*

The front door flew open with all the grace of a SWAT raid, and there stood Roy Harper, arms full of takeout containers, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder, and an expression that screamed *emotional damage with a side of fries*.

Jason blinked. “Oh no.”

Roy stomped in like a man on a mission. “I’m crashing here.”

Jason didn't move. “Didn’t ask.”

Roy dropped everything on the kitchen counter anyway, grabbing two chopsticks and pointing them like swords. “She dumped me.”

Jason let his head fall back against the couch cushion. You asked, not even looking up from your spot on his chest, if Roy was okay.

“He’s fine,” Jason muttered. “He’s in his Shakespeare monologue phase.”

“I gave her my heart!,” Roy called dramatically from the kitchen. “And she gave me back my spare hoodie and a bag of cold fires.”

Jason sighed.

You shifted to sit up, and Jason tried—really tried—to pull you back down. You patted his chest like *be nice*, and he groaned because you were right, but also tragically good at ruining his plans to ignore the problem until it left.

By the time Jason got off the couch, Roy had moved to phase two: flopping onto Jason’s bed face-down, arms sprawled like a sad starfish. He was still talking.

“She said I was emotionally unavailable,” came the muffled whine into Jason’s pillow. “Can you believe that?”

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the grown man make himself at home like this was a sitcom and not his safehouse. “You *named* her potted plant after your ex. Of course she thinks you’re emotionally unavailable.”

Roy rolled over and pointed accusingly. “I was processing.”

“You were projecting.”

“I was *nurturing*.”

Jason shook his head, turning toward the hallway. “This is karma. For every time I’ve ever ghosted someone, the universe gave me *you*.”

Back in the living room, you had commandeered the takeout and were halfway through picking out the spring rolls. Jason sat beside you, dragging a hand over his face.

“I swear to God,” he muttered under his breath, “next time we move, we’re not giving Roy the address.”

From the bedroom: “I heard that!”

Jason shot you a look. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”