“Shut up,” Jason snaps, pressing down firmly on your chest. His hands are steady; the rest of him, not so much. “You idiot, what were you thinking?”

Except there’s no heat in his voice—the opposite, really. There’s no mistaking the way his voice wavers when your blood stains his gloves.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’s supposed to be mad at you for not listening to him, not for bleeding out in his arms.

His silent question is obvious: Why would you take a bullet for him?