Jason knew that when it came to him, you couldn’t help but worry yourself sick. And tonight was no different.

He had been extra quiet slipping into the bathroom, hoping to tend to his wound without waking you. But somehow, you always knew.

"I was shot in my bulletproof vest, baby girl. It’s just a couple of bruises," he tried to reassure you as he wrapped a bandage around his torso.

But when you started explaining the flaws of bulletproof vests—the way they didn’t fully absorb impact, the internal damage they could still cause—he saw the panic rising in your eyes.

Before you could spiral, he gently cupped your face, tilting it up so you’d look at him.

"I’m fine," he promised, his voice steady. Then, as if to prove his point, he pulled the bandage aside, revealing nothing but darkening bruises.

"See? Just a couple of bruises."