One sock hangs halfway off his foot, dangling at the toe. His glasses sit crooked on the coffee table beside an untouched mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago, the surface filmed over in a way that means it had been forgotten almost immediately after being made. One hand is tucked beneath his cheek, fingers curled loosely, like he was twelve years old instead of twenty-two.

The mission was over. The target neutralized. The city quiet. And the rooftop—secluded. Mostly. Jason sat back against the cold ledge, his helmet discarded beside him, the night air cool against his sweat-dampened hair. His legs were spread, a deliberate invitation, a challenge. Tim was on his knees between them, the rough fabric of his suit pressing against Jason’s tactical pants. “I still can’t believe you convinced me to do this on patrol,” Tim muttered, his voice a low rumble of complaint that did nothing to hide the tremor of anticipation in his hands. His fingers, sure and steady, curled around the heavy buckle of Jason’s belt, the leather creaking softly as he worked it open.

We apparently have no love for reforms in this timeline

… which renders the Bible an unreliable source of information.

I try to recognize this bias in my own thinking so can view the world more objectively.