Roy had called you earlier, his voice tight with concern, telling you Jason had shown up at his place looking like he’d gone twelve rounds with a freight train. Beaten, bruised, and too stubborn to admit either. As a nursing student, patching him up had practically become second nature—so you grabbed your first aid kit without thinking and rushed over.

By the time you walked in, Jason had already bled through the bandages twice. The sight of you hit harder than the punches he’d taken earlier—even half dead, he couldn’t help but check his girlfriend out.

You told him he looked like crap.

“You always this sweet at midnight?”

Scoffing at his remark, you asked him what happened.

“Same old. Different alley.”

Unzipping your bag, you pulled out your first aid kit.

“Babe—I’m fine,” Jason started, flashing you that lopsided grin.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

The second the hydrogen peroxide-soaked cloth touched the cut on his cheek, he hissed through his teeth and flinched. You didn’t even look up.