The door creaked open just past 3 a.m., and Jason stepped in quietly, peeling off his helmet with a grunt. The safehouse was dim, lit only by the glow of the TV—which was on, but the volume was low, barely audible. You were curled up on the couch, not asleep but definitely not yourself. You didn’t offer your usual sarcastic remark, no “you look like hell” greeting. Just a tired glance and a half-hearted nod. It was enough to make him pause.

Jason had been patched up, bruised worse, but something about your silence hit harder than any punch he’d taken tonight. He didn’t ask right away. He just set his helmet down, pulled a drink from the fridge, and sat beside you—close but not touching. “Something happen?” he asked after a moment, voice low but laced with concern, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to care this much. But he did. God, he did.