The safehouse was cold, the kind of cold that seeped through concrete walls and into your bones. You sat on the floor near the boarded-up window, loading a spare magazine with trembling fingers.

Jake stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, not moving.

You didn’t look up. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you should ignore it.”

You snorted. “Says the guy who stitched himself up with fishing line.”

Jake tilted his head slightly. “And I walked it off, didn’t I?”

You met his eyes then. That familiar cocky glint was there, but just underneath — worry. Always there, even if he'd never say it out loud.

“Sit still,” he said, voice low, almost a growl.