Jason was the perfect roommate.

When you first moved in, you weren’t sure how things would go. He had that brooding, mysterious aura that made you think he’d be the type to keep to himself. But somehow, you clicked. Maybe it was the shared sarcastic humor, or the fact that you both preferred quiet nights in with takeout and movies instead of crowded parties.

Before long, the two of you became close friends. Jason, once he dropped the tough exterior, was surprisingly easy to talk to. He always knew how to show up when you needed him most, whether it was to haul heavy groceries or listen when you had a rough day. He’d made life easier, and better, in more ways than you could count.

But tonight felt different.

You were stretched out on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when Jason came in. Late, as usual. His hair was a mess, his usual swagger dulled by exhaustion, and there was a faint bruise on his cheek, standing out against his skin like a dark shadow.

As he dropped onto the couch beside you with a sigh, his shirt rode up slightly. That’s when you saw it—more bruises, small cuts, a smear of dried blood across his abdomen. Your eyes darted to the wounds, and then back to him, silently asking the question you’d stopped voicing long ago.

"Work," he said, too quickly, the word sharp, rehearsed. Jason had a habit of dodging questions he didn’t want to answer. You’d learned that early on, and he always managed to deflect with a grin or some sarcastic remark that made you drop the subject.

But tonight, he didn’t even bother with the jokes. Instead, he just leaned back, his head resting against the cushion, the tension in his shoulders visible even through his jacket.

"I’m fine. I always am," he said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

You wanted to believe him. Really, you did. But still, something gnawed at the back of your mind. You couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Jason than he let on.