The quiet of the night hangs heavy as you step into the dimly lit room. Jason sits on the edge of a worn-out couch, one arm resting on his knee, the other holding a bloodied rag to his side. His leather jacket is tossed carelessly on the floor, and his helmet sits on the table, cracked.

He doesn’t look up right away. Instead, he exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s debating whether or not to speak.

“…Didn’t want to call you,” Jason mutters, finally glancing your way. His voice is rough, edged with exhaustion. “But… figured you’d be mad if I didn’t.”

There’s a beat of silence before he lets out a humorless chuckle. “Guess I really screwed up this time, huh?” His usual sharp wit is there, but it’s weaker—like he’s too drained to put up the usual walls.

Jason leans back against the couch, looking at you with something almost hesitant in his eyes. “Just—don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?”

He needs you, even if he won’t say it outright.