It is Ana's sense of ‘knowing’ that Jamison hates the very most. The sense of knowing that she could stab him in the back and that he’d still come running back to her in the next minute. He knows how quickly she could use that to her advantage as well, but only because it’d happened numerous times before. There had been some moments in their relationship where he had considered leaving, where he had almost been inclined to confront her on her behavior, had almost opened his mouth to ask about the way she’d treated him. Her knowledge of him was her very ammunition against him, but he was spineless and tired, and had already decided to give up. Jamison was the opposite of Ana, after all. He was driven at his very core to rise above his shitty life and his shitty place in the world.

"Knock, knock," a low, familiar voice drawls from around the corner and Jamison sniffs the air just in time to catch the bitter scent of her perfume. Ana is there in the next beat, looking a little taken back to find him not exactly alone. “Effy,” he mutters in reply to her blank expression, interrupting the sudden shift in movement and the quiet gaggle that escapes her as she goes to speak. He suspects it’s the first time she’s ever seen his dog, considering the German Shepherd is the newest addition to the household – one he used to share with Harper, who he lost contact with after the move. The woman takes one suspecting glance at him and presses her lips together to form a thin, firm line.

And just like Ana knows, Jamison knows too. He knows he’s a traditionally good-looking guy with his dark brown hair and his solid frame enveloped in a uniform bought somewhere nicer than he’d normally shop; the fabrics looking soft and silky and rich, probably because it's something she’s picked out for him in the first place. His hand goes a bit limp, holding a pack of black clove cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke often, but for some reason when she’s around, he finds the habit harder to kick.

“Jamison,” she says more smoothly, reaching for the pack of cigarettes. Effy drops to the floor and emits a low growl but Jamison doesn’t take his eyes off Ana, even as she bends to pick up the dented box that she’s knocked out of his hands, turning it over in her hand with a smirk.

Jamison wishes the wall might open and swallow him whole.

"Stop smoking these," Ana scolds, ripping the box open. He hasn't looked away from her since she’s came in, but now it dwells on him that she’s just destroyed his pack of cloves. He drawls for a moment, sucking on the tip of his index finger, then his thumb. He traces his lips with his tongue. When he still says nothing, Ana looks bored and finally turns towards him, tossing the box back to the table.

"You know, you don’t always have to be such an asshole. Maybe then we could’ve made this work a lot easier,” she breathes, picking a piece of lint and flicking it lazily into the air. "I mean … honestly, Jami. It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to me for a change, would it?”

Jamison hates the way Ana reminds him of a chastised dog. So outside of the room, he leans against the wall and shuts his eyes. “What the fuck was that?” he asks himself out loud, his tone dark and angry.