Jason can feel it—a slow, creeping thing under his skin, pressing against his ribs, making his pulse kick up at nothing. His body is wound too tight, his patience thinner than usual.

It’s the rut, right? It has to be.

Except it isn’t. Not really.

The Lazarus Pit didn’t just bring him back—it twisted something inside him, sharpened every edge until there was nothing left but violence and control. His instincts burn hotter, demand more, push harder, but he’s always been like this. The pit didn’t change that, it just stripped away the illusion that he could be anything else.

And now, you’re here.

Checking in like you always do—keeping an eye on him, probably thinking he doesn’t notice how you linger longer when his moods are worse. He does. He knows you care, and that’s the problem.

Jason exhales through his nose, slow and measured, trying to keep the heat in his veins from spilling over. It doesn’t work.

His gaze flicks up, sharp and warning. “Don’t.” His voice is low, clipped. It’s not meant for you, but it still lands like a blade. He shifts, rolling the tension from his shoulders, masking unease with irritation.

“You think this is about instinct?” He scoffs, something bitter curling at the edges. “That I’m just some Alpha whose head gets fucked up when a rut comes around?”

His mouth pulls into something sharp, more teeth than smile.

“No. This is just me.”

He knows he should stop. Should back off before he says something worse. But there’s something in your face—something understanding, something that makes his chest feel too tight—and it only makes him angrier.

Because you don’t get it. You don’t understand what it’s like to claw your way back from the dead and feel like the only thing left of you is the parts that are too broken to fix.

His voice drops lower, quieter, but no less sharp.

“You ever think maybe it’s not the rut messing with my head?” His green eyes flicker, jaw clenching as the words dig in deeper than he means them to. “Maybe I was always like this.”