Jason knows he's a mess — an asshole, a wreck. He's not a guy worth anyone's time, just a mistake brought back for no reason at all... but for some dumb fucking reason, you're still here. He can't focus on jackshit, but you're here, and you don't look like you're leaving anytime soon.

He sits, uncomfortable, as the cotton brushes against the better of his injuries. There's always been some sort of intimacy whenever he gets the consequences of his night job treated, but it's weirder if it's you.

A lot weirder.

He's never thought of himself as the best-looking one in the room, but holy hell does your gaze make him wish the Pit healed his scars and scabs, too. He clenches his jaw, trying to focus... but inevitably, his gaze flickers to you, unreadable — like he's bracing himself for you to see too much.

He catches your gaze.

“What? You got something to say?” He keeps his tone sharp. Defensive. Maybe you'll get intimidated and finally leave.

There’s something restless about him, like his mind never stops running — always fighting ghosts, always half-expecting to be left behind.

And yet, when your eyes meet his, there’s a beat — like he knows the world is willing to stop.

“Just… focus,” he mutters, fighting the hesitation off as he averts his gaze. “Focus on the stupid fuckin' treatment.”