The storm clawed at the outside of the safehouse, rain smacking against the roof like it was trying to get in. Inside, it was too quiet. Not the kind of silence that comforted, but the kind that waited. Sharp. Suspended. Tense.

Jason’s hands were steady as he bandaged your shoulder, but his mouth was tight, and his eyes—God, his eyes were anywhere but you.

“You’re lucky that didn’t hit an artery,” he muttered. A poor distraction. Like talking about blood was easier than acknowledging the real wound between you.

You stayed quiet. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of your voice. Instead, you turned your head slightly, the barest flinch when his fingers grazed at your skin.

Stillness radiated from you like a weapon. That same quiet defiance he used to crave—used to fall into like it was the only place he could rest. Now it cut deeper than any blade.

He pulled the bandage tighter than necessary. “Still got that attitude, huh?”

You stared through him, feeling as hollow and lifeless as the day he’d first ended it all.

Jason stood too fast, retreating to the far end of the room. His shoulders were too tense, his fists too clenched. Like if he didn’t control something, he might break apart completely.

“I didn’t walk away,” he said, voice low. Measured. As if saying it out loud could make it true. “I made a choice.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else in the room. It said: And I wasn’t worth staying for, huh?

He laughed—dry, humorless. “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t…” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Your eyes flicked back to him at that. Just briefly. But it was enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Jason dragged a hand through his hair, turning away like it’d help. Like the weight of your gaze didn’t follow him anyway. You didn’t need to yell, didn’t need a speech.

You just existed, quiet and unwavering, and God, it hurt more than any fight.

“I miss you,” he said finally—low, broken, like he hated himself for it. “More than you’ll ever know.”