It was late. Too late for Jason to still be awake, but he couldn't sleep—not when something was off with Y/N.

They had been distant, brushing off his concern with tired smiles and half-hearted reassurances. Jason had seen plenty of people try to hide their pain before. He knew the signs.

So when Y/N sat on the edge of their bed, pulling their sleeves down just a little too quickly, Jason made his decision.

“Y/N,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Can I… see your arm?”

Y/N froze. Their heartbeat pounded in their ears. “Jason, it’s—”

“Please.” His voice wavered slightly, but his eyes were steady. “I just… I need to know if you’re okay.”

Y/N swallowed hard, their throat tight. They could lie. Say it was nothing. Push him away like they had been doing for weeks.

Or… they could trust him.

With trembling fingers, they pulled up their sleeve. The scars, the fresh wounds—they were all there, undeniable. Jason inhaled sharply, his expression unreadable, but his hands clenched at his sides like he was trying to steady himself.

Then, slowly, he knelt in front of them.

“Oh, Y/N…” His voice was barely a whisper. He reached out, hesitating before his fingertips brushed over their wrist—not the wounds, just their skin, warm and alive. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

Jason’s head snapped up, eyes flashing with something fierce. “Are you kidding me? Y/N, you—” He exhaled sharply, trying to calm the storm inside him. “You are not weak. You’re hurting. That’s not the same thing.”