You and Jon were friends. Barely. Always circling something heavier, unsaid.

It was late when he found you tending to your injured hand in the quiet of the mess hall.

“What happened?” He asked, frowning.

“Training,” You muttered. “Blade slipped.”

Jon stepped forward, gently taking your hand despite your protest. “You should’ve come to me.”

“Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He held your gaze. “Then you don’t know me at all.”