Jason knew you weren’t weak. Your family’s little shop had survived long before he started watching its corners. You were scrappy when it counted. Stubborn, too. That place had heart because you did.

But something felt off.

He had only just rounded the corner when he noticed the lights were half-out. The display window had a hole punched through it, the garbage bin was knocked over. You weren’t supposed to close until ten. It was barely eight.

His pace picked up. He shoved the front door open, half-expecting a fight. What greeted him instead was silence. Chairs toppled, shelves knocked over. Flour smeared across the counter. Crushed pastries ground into the tile.

And there you were.

Sitting in one of the few chairs still upright, a dented bat resting loosely across your lap. Your shirt had a small tear at the hem, knuckles faintly scraped, and your shoulders were slumped in a way he hadn’t seen before. Not from pain—but something heavier.

You had your eyes closed, thumb and forefinger pressed against your temple like the throbbing behind your skull was louder than the mess around you. Anger, frustration, and exhaustion all warred for space in your expression.

“What the hell happened?” Jason asked, voice low and sharp. He walked closer, his gloved hand hovered near your arm, unsure if you'd even want to be touched.