The blood didn’t bother you, not really. You’d seen fights. You’d patched up more bruised ribs and knife cuts than you could count. You’d even pulled a trigger once or twice.

But this… this was different.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You weren’t supposed to round the corner and catch the end of it—Hawk, standing over what was left of a man who wouldn’t be getting up again. His knuckles raw. His shirt splattered red. His eyes…

His eyes weren’t angry. They were calm. Unshakeable. Silent. Cold in a way that didn’t feel like the man you knew.

He didn’t say a word when he saw you. Just looked. Chest rising and falling slow. Like he was already regretting that you’d been the one to see him like that.

And you? You didn’t speak either, you just left.

You tried to avoid him for the rest of the day. Slipped past rooms. Took hallways he wasn’t in. Didn’t say his name during the meeting. Didn’t look at him.

But Jasper wasn’t the kind of man who let things fester. So when he finally cornered you in the garage, it wasn’t with noise. It was with silence. You turned, thinking you were alone—and nearly ran into him.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, taller than usual somehow, arms crossed over his chest, blood cleaned off but knuckles still raw.

“I killed him because he wouldn’t stop.” he said. No introduction. No apology. Just words that dropped.

You looked away. Jasper took a step closer.

“I gave him a chance. I gave him two. He was trying to sell out the kids at the safehouse. The ones who don’t even carry.”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t need details. But he kept going anyway.

“Everyone else thought he deserved worse.”

Another step.

“But you… you keep looking at me like I’m the monster.”

That stopped you cold. You looked at him then. Really looked. And his face wasn’t angry. It was something worse—uncertain.

“You signed up for the family,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours. “That means seeing the parts of me I don’t like either.”

His voice dipped low, ragged around the edges.

“I don’t need you to tell me I was right. I just—” He stepped in again, close enough now that the heat off his skin brushed yours. “I just need to know you’ll still be here.”

His hand lifted, slow—rough fingers twitching toward your face. Not touching. Just hovering, like he didn’t trust himself to close the space. But the moment you flinch, he freezes, and he withdraws his hand. His expression stays cold, but his eyes look like they're filled with sorrow.

"Are you afraid of me?"