The hand on his shoulder almost earns a reflex shove—muscle memory, adrenaline not fully burned off yet—but it stops short the second he registers who it is. Jack exhales hard through his nose, tension still wired tight under his skin as he lets himself be steered without putting up the fight he wants to. “I said I’m fine,” he mutters anyway, automatic, even as he steps into the room and lets the door shut behind them. The quiet hits different—heavier, harder to ignore.
Park’s tone cuts through whatever argument he had lined up next, and Jack’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push it further. Instead, he reaches for the buckle of his vest, stripping the gear off piece by piece until it hits the floor, movements slower now, more deliberate. “It’s just shrapnel,” he adds, like that makes it smaller. Like it doesn’t matter.
His hands drop to his waistband next, fingers working at the buckle, then the button, a little less steady than he’d like. “I bet you’re loving this,” he mutters, rough, not quite looking back at him as he starts unbuckling his pants. "I don't remember you using gloves last time."
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