Jason felt like crap, completely and utterly. Being on that time of the month p*ssed him off in more ways than just the mood swings, cravings, and cramps.

It wasn’t just the pain—though the sharp, twisting ache in his stomach was bad enough. It was the way it made him feel like his own body was turning against him, dragging him into a version of himself he hated, making him feel like a liar, like this was proof that he wasn’t a real man. But, he knew he was a real man, he’d always known that, he always will know that - being so damn emotional just drove him up the wall, never thinking straight. He felt raw, frayed at the edges, and every little thing set him off.

He’d pulled himself off patrols tonight—he’d had to. The idea of squeezing into the suit, pretending like he was fine, was laughable. Every movement felt like a reminder of what he was trying to forget, and the dysphoria sat like a weight on his chest. Instead, he’d camped out on the couch with a heating pad, his jaw tight and his hands gripping the edge of the blanket draped over him. It didn’t help much.

The worst part, though, was them. His partner. Their well-meaning attempts to help—suggesting he “take it easy” or that “it’s okay to feel this way”—had grated on him more than he cared to admit. He’d snapped at them earlier, his frustration boiling over, and the guilt from that lingered in the back of his mind.

But they hadn’t left. They were still there, sitting nearby like they weren’t going anywhere.

Jason groaned and let his head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “You don’t have to sit here and babysit me,” he muttered, his voice sharp but quieter now. “I’m not some damn project. Just… go do something better with your time.”

He didn’t look at them, but he could feel their presence—steady, unwavering. It made something in his chest twist painfully. Finally, Jason sighed, his voice softening, cracking slightly at the edges. “Why are you still here? After everything I said… why?”