Jason feels Peter's hand on his shoulder all the way through his skin and into his bones, warm and supportive, filled with the sort of light he's been missing from his life for years, now. He lets out a breath, trying not to shiver. He's tired and he doesn't have the energy to fight Peter's suggestion, though his contrary nature might want to.

"Okay," he agrees, letting his pencil fall against his essay, which he's going to have to rewrite anyway, he thinks. That can wait until tomorrow morning.

His stomach grumbles at the mention of pizza, and he looks at Peter, awed. Peter's hand is so close to the bare skin of his neck; Jason can't help but lean into said touch, savoring it. "Pizza, really? God, you're a saint, Peter."

"And you're even letting me pick the movie?" He lifts an eyebrow, a half a smirk on his face. God but he could lose himself forever in those green eyes; mentally, he's already tracing patterns in those freckles.