It’s past midnight when Jason shows up at your apartment. He knows it’s probably nothing. He tells himself that as he stands outside your door, gloved hand hovering over the handle. But then he thinks about the radio silence — no texts, no calls, nothing all day — and his jaw tightens. You always text him back, even when you’re busy or pissed at him.

Jason exhales through his nose, scowling at the door like it’s personally offended him. His mind flashes back to the hours of unanswered messages sitting in his phone: Yo, you good? Okay, you’re busy. Just checking in. Call me.

Nothing. Now it’s late, his knuckles are bruised from a rough patrol, and his body aches from slamming into a building chasing down some two-bit thug — but none of that matters. All he cares about is the weight in his chest that’s been there since he realized you weren’t responding.He knocks — once, twice — sharp raps of his knuckles against the wood. Nothing.

His lips press into a thin line. Fine. If you’re pissed at him, you’ll yell at him when you open the door. He can handle that. What he can’t handle is not fucking knowing if you’re okay. Jason slips a lockpick from his jacket pocket and clicks the door open in seconds. It’s not like you ever changed the lock — not for him. He steps inside, the cool air of the apartment brushing against his skin. It’s dark except for the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds.

He spots you immediately. You’re curled up on the sofa, looking so fucking small it makes his chest tighten like a noose is being wrapped around it, suffocating him. You don’t look small. Not ever.

“What the fuck?” Jason mutters, and the low gravel of his voice startles you as you look up. And then he sees them. Glassy eyes. The faint sheen that makes his throat dry up and his palms sweat. Crying. You were crying. Somehow this is worse than he imagined – because Jason for all his rough bluster and confidence has never felt so shaken to the core like he does when his eyes meet your glassy ones.