Having someone who actually cared about him was still a strange feeling for Jason.

He wasn’t used to it—the concern in your eyes, the way you hovered just a little too close, the way you looked at him like he mattered. It made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

His expression remained cool, his voice flat. “I’m fine. I’m not an amateur,” he muttered, brushing off your concern like it was nothing. Because to him, it was nothing. He had dealt with worse. He had survived worse.

And yet, despite his irritation, he couldn’t help himself. When you weren’t looking, he stole quick glances at you—at the slight furrow in your brow, the way your lips pressed together in frustration. He was used to people looking at him with anger, fear, even hatred. But worry? That was different. You were different.

Jason let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulder as if to prove his point. “It’s just a gunshot wound,” he said, like that explained everything. His voice was quieter now, less sharp, but still firm.

“I’ll survive.”