Tuesday, September 17th 

It had been days since Jason reached out to you.

Days of chewing on his own mistakes, grinding his teeth on the reasons why. He still couldn’t explain what had possessed him to break his silence in the first place, why he’d stepped out of the shadows and let you see him, breathing, living, when the world was supposed to think he was nothing but a headstone and an empty casket. That night replayed in his head like a bad tape. The look in your eyes—wide, shattered, like you were staring at something not quite alive, not quite dead—had burned itself into him. It lodged there like a knife, twisting ugly and raw every time he let himself remember. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe that’s why he told himself it was better to vanish again. To ghost you. To keep you safe from the storm living inside him, from the wreckage that trailed after him like smoke.

Because you weren’t just someone from his past. You were the first person he went to. The only one. And that made you dangerous.

The fact that you knew he was out here, breathing, bleeding, existing in the cracks of Gotham was a risk he had no right to gamble with. If anyone had seen the two of you together, they’d start connecting the dots, and the picture they’d draw would end with you in someone’s sights. Jason’s frown deepened even now at the thought of you being dragged into his mess because he couldn’t stay away. That was what he told himself. That’s what he had to believe. That’s why he came that day, why he kept coming back to your block. To make sure you weren’t on anyone’s radar, to make sure his enemies didn’t get the bright idea to use you as leverage.

He swore he was there to protect you. Not to slip back into the gravity of your voice. Not to ache at the way you said his name like it was still something holy.

But even now, days later, he still remembered the tiny tremor in your hand, the way it twitched like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t quite trust your own eyes. He still heard the catch in your breath, like your heart had recognized him before your mind caught up. And he’d walked away anyway.

Now he lingered on the edges of your world, where he belonged. Watching from the shadows, peering into your apartment window just long enough to make sure you were okay. That had become his ritual, his penance. It was the last string keeping him from snapping completely, from exploding on everyone who’d failed him, everyone who’d left him in the dirt. You were blameless, untouched by his sins. You were his saving grace, the only piece of light he hadn’t smudged with blood.

He couldn’t risk hurting you. But he couldn’t risk letting anyone else get the chance either.

Sunday, September 22nd

Jason was back, crouched on the tip of a rooftop across from your building, the night pressing cold against his shoulders as he fixed his eyes on your window. The little square of light spilled out into the dark like a beacon, drawing him in whether he wanted it to or not. He told himself he wasn’t a creep. Not a perv. Not some sick voyeur with nothing better to do. But the thought still nagged at him as he watched you.

You weren’t doing anything scandalous—hell, you weren’t even trying. You were tucked into the couch in your old hoodie and sweats, slouched like gravity was winning tonight. A movie flickered on your TV, coloring your face in shifting blues and yellows, and Jason caught himself thinking you looked almost… peaceful. Safe. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, forcing himself to scan the street, the alleys, the rooftops around him. That’s what he was here for. That’s what this was. Recon. Keeping watch. Nothing else.

Still, his gaze slid back to your window like it had a mind of its own. He noticed how your hair fell in messy waves, loose from whatever half-assed bun you’d probably shoved it into earlier. You looked comfortable. At home. Normal. And the sight hit him harder than he expected, like a reminder of everything he’d lost, everything he couldn’t touch anymore.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered under his breath. Get it together, Todd. Be normal about this. Because if he let himself linger too long, he’d start wanting and wanting was dangerous. No, this wasn’t about him. It was about you—keeping you away from anyone's attention but his. Making sure you stayed safe in a city that liked to chew people up and spit them out bloody. 

That was the story, and he was sticking to it. This wasn’t obsession. This wasn’t weakness.

This was essential.

Friday, October 4th

You hadn’t been home for a while.

Jason told himself not to care. At least, not in the way he did. He kept shoving the shallow, selfish thoughts down like stuffing rags into a leaking pipe, trying to plug the ache before it drowned him. Concern. That was all it could be. 

He should’ve followed you. He knew it. Every nerve in his body had twitched with the urge to trail you, but you’d looked so excited when you left earlier—fresh lipstick, hair done, that light in your eyes like you were sixteen again and not living in Gotham. It made him hesitate, made him second-guess himself. He convinced himself you’d be fine. He told himself you were only vulnerable at home, in that shoebox apartment with its peeling paint and locks that wouldn’t keep out a motivated twelve-year-old. Out with friends, you’d be safe. That’s what he clung to, even while his gut screamed at him that he’d just made the wrong call.

How many lines am I going to cross before it’s too far? The thought hissed through his brain like acid. Do I care? Should I?

Perched on the cold ledge outside your building, Jason dug his fingers into the crumbling brick until grit bit into his skin. He felt like the worst guard dog Gotham had ever spat out; absent when it mattered, showing up late with teeth bared but no clue what to bite. 

He was still grinding himself down with guilt when he heard it: your laugh. It floated up from the street below, a sharp, bright note against the low drone of traffic and the far-off wail of sirens. His body reacted before his brain caught up—shoulders dropping, breath unclenching, muscles easing like a knot loosening.

He shifted, sliding back into the dark like smoke, eyes sharp until he found you. There you were, stepping under a flickering streetlamp, the moonlight snagging on your hair and turning the loose strands into silver threads. A halo. Fitting, he thought bitterly. You always had a way of looking untouchable, even when you weren’t. Especially when you weren’t. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Don’t go there.” But his eyes didn’t listen.

Your outfit didn’t help. Tight top, short skirt. Not scandalous. Just… you. Bold, alive, like you weren’t afraid of the city that had chewed both of you raw. The kind of thing that demanded to be seen. Jason hated how it made his chest tighten with something heavier than fear, something he didn’t have the right to feel anymore. But the sway in your step sobered him quick, the soft wobble of your ankles on uneven pavement. Drunk, tired, maybe both. Jason’s stomach twisted, half endearment, half pure terror. Part of him remembered the warmth of your breath against his throat at old parties, your laughter vibrating into his collarbone. The other part wanted to snatch you clean off the sidewalk and carry you home before someone else noticed.

And someone would notice. He saw the cluster of men loitering at the end of the block, the kind who thought drunken girls were invitations, not people. He knew the kind of things they’d say, the way their eyes would snap to you like vultures spotting meat. His hands clenched, fists aching with the effort not to tear across the street and break their faces in. 

You didn’t notice them. Didn’t notice any of it. And that ignorance had Jason’s pulse spiking, sweat prickling under his collar, the itch of violence crawling up his spine.

Only when your key slid into the lock and you slipped inside did his muscles finally loosen. His fists unfurled, his heartbeat slowed, and for the first time all night, he let out a shaky breath. He stayed crouched there in the dark, eyes locked on your door like it was the only thing anchoring him.

This won’t happen again.

The words circled like a mantra, steady, absolute. For your safety, he’d follow. He’d shadow you, every night if he had to. He’d cross that line and the next and the next until the city understood: you were untouchable. It’s what had to be done.

Thursday, October 31st

Thankfully, Jason didn’t need to try hard to blend in. Gotham’s Halloween parties were an excuse for chaos; masks, costumes, drunk idiots pretending to be things far scarier than they’d ever actually face. So yeah, his leather jacket and jeans passed without a second glance, and his Red Hood mask? Everyone thought it was just a prop, some edgy choice for the season. If only they knew. It made slipping into the shadows easy. Perched in the corner, half-hidden by strobing lights and fake cobwebs, Jason kept his eyes locked on you.

And you… Christ, you were nothing like anyone he’d ever tailed before. Usually, his nights were spent hunting men who deserved a bullet in the back of their skulls. Thieves, traffickers, the kind of scum he didn’t have to think twice about putting down. His “stalking” was all about angles, about timing, about clean shots and exit plans.

But this? This was you.

You on the dance floor, hips moving to a beat you didn’t even have to think about, your laugh spilling brighter than the neon lights flashing across your face. Your smile soft, easy. Your hair catching the glow in ways that made him think of a time when you’d fall asleep on his chest and he’d bury his nose in those strands just to breathe you in. Jason told himself to stay clinical, detached—observe, assess, protect. But every second he watched you, he sank deeper into a hunger that had nothing to do with tactics.

You had no idea how badly he missed you. The ghost of your weight under his palms, the way you used to cling when he pulled you close, the shiver that raced through you when he brushed his nose along the crook of your neck. He’d never believed in things like devotion, not before you. He’d never trusted something soft enough to last. But now, standing in the crush of bodies and noise, he realized devotion was the only thing keeping him here, tethered to this world instead of burning it all down. And when your eyes found him—heavy-lidded, glossy from the booze, but sharp enough to cut through the crowd—he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to hide.

No, instead, he dipped his head just slightly. A small signal, a promise. You’re safe. I’m here.

You froze mid-step on the dance floor, and for a heartbeat, the world stilled with you. Your friends kept laughing, spinning, calling your name over the bass, but you didn’t look away. It was just you and him in that crowded, suffocating room, your stare slicing straight through the mask like it was nothing. Like it had always done, even when he was alive the first time around. Jason’s pulse spiked, hammering against his ribs, but he didn’t move. He held his ground. And you didn’t either.

Then, someone tugged at your arm, shouted your name, and the moment fractured. You blinked, turning away, though your gaze lingered on him for as long as you could stretch it, like you were reluctant to let go. It was over. Jason stood there, still burning from the aftershock, watching as you laughed again, let yourself be pulled back into the swirl of lights and noise, as if nothing had happened. Like you could snap back into your life without missing a beat. And that was good. Maybe that’s what he should want for you—to live inside that bubble of normalcy, safe and untouched, unbothered by the weight of a resurrected corpse who couldn’t stay buried.

But as his hands curled into fists at his sides, as his chest ached from the phantom of your stare, the question struck sharp and unrelenting:

If that’s what he wanted for you… why couldn’t he leave you alone?

Saturday, November 9th

This was the first night since Halloween that Jason had taken watch over you again. Too many nights he’d been elsewhere—wringing himself dry on rooftops, chasing ghosts, grinding his resentment into bone-deep calluses until it felt like he’d explode if someone looked at him wrong. But tonight, he was where he belonged.

He knew your schedule down to the minute. By now, he could map your route blindfolded: the flickering neon sign above the liquor store, the busted streetlamp two doors from your building, the stretch of cracked sidewalk that always puddled after rain. He shadowed you from above, eyes sharp, chest tight.

And then it happened.

You turned the corner past a yawning alley, and three men peeled out of the dark like wolves catching a scent. Weapons glinted in the dirty light; knife, pipe, something heavier Jason couldn’t clock yet. They spread wide, corralling you like they’d done this a thousand times.

“Bag. Now.”

You froze. Jason saw the tremor in your shoulders even from a distance. And then one of them made the mistake—the fatal mistake—of reaching out and grabbing your arm, tugging you like you were something cheap off a rack. Jason moved before his brain had a chance to catch up.

He dropped from the fire escape like a thunderclap, boots hitting the pavement hard enough to echo off the walls. The men spun, startled, and Jason saw the recognition flicker in their eyes. Red Hood. Too late. The first lunged with a pipe, too slow. Jason caught him mid-swing, twisted the weapon free, and slammed it across his jaw. The crunch sang in Jason’s ears, and he didn’t stop. He brought the pipe down again, harder, until the man hit the pavement like dead weight.

The second was faster, knife flashing. Jason let the blade skim his jacket, leather tearing but skin untouched. It was enough to earn him the pleasure of retaliation. He buried his fist in the guy’s face, felt cartilage snap under his knuckles. The knife clattered away, and Jason drove him headfirst into the wall, brick scraping skin raw as he slid down unconscious.

The last man faltered, clutching his bottle like it could save him. Jason smiled behind the mask, cruel and humorless. He feigned a step back, let the man think he had a chance, then crushed it. One kick snapped his knee sideways with a wet pop that ripped a scream from his throat. Jason followed with an elbow to the temple, dropping him in a heap, twitching.

And then, silence.

Jason stood in the wreckage, chest rising slow and steady, a storm finally given room to break. Blood stained his gloves, dripping down the pipe still clutched in his hand. He let it drop, the clang echoing.

He tilted his head to look at you, wiping smeared blood off of his face. You were frozen a few feet away, clutching your bag, eyes wide. Jason could almost hear your pulse from here, feel the way the world had narrowed to just him and the monsters at his feet. He should’ve been ashamed of how good it felt. He wasn’t. What gnawed at him instead was the fact that you’d seen it all—seen the violence, the blood, the damage he’d wrought in seconds. That same dark red smeared across his hands had pooled close to your shoes. The thought should’ve made him recoil, should’ve set his stomach twisting in guilt, but he let it slide. Adrenaline was still humming through his veins, giving him enough control to form thoughts into words.

“They won’t touch you again,” he said, voice low, steady, edged with the afterglow of violence. For once, he meant every word. 

You didn’t look down at the bodies. Jason couldn’t tell if he was relieved or more frustrated. Part of him wanted confirmation, the other part wanted to pretend it didn’t matter. He wasn’t sure who was still breathing and who wasn’t, and maybe that uncertainty was exactly how he liked it. You walked around the scene like a careful ghost, knuckles white around your bag, shoulders tight with self-protection. And still, you brushed past him just enough that the wind carried your scent, light, familiar, impossible to ignore. His nose caught it instantly, following it instinctively like a predator.

“Let’s clean you up before you go,” you murmured as you started toward your apartment, expecting him to follow. He knew the words were your way of saying thank you, and he couldn’t refuse—not when every fiber of him wanted to keep you safe, wanted to be near you, even if it was the very thing that put you in danger in the first place. He could be cold, lethal, unstoppable when he had to be… but with you? With you, he’d bend like a leaf in a storm. Say jump, and he’d already be asking, “How high?”

Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, the sharp aftertaste of violence still humming through him, or maybe it was the way your jeans hugged your legs, the sway of your hips as you walked, but Jason couldn’t take his eyes off you. Not fully. Not ever. He kept his face tucked under the mask, hidden, but it only gave him more freedom to drink you in; every line, every movement, every effortless grace he’d missed for far too long. He was chasing you in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in years. Inches felt like miles, each step you took a torment and a blessing. His chest tightened, his blood pumping with the fight still lingering in his veins, and yet somehow, it was nothing compared to how he felt just watching you move.

Jason didn’t register he was inside until the air of your apartment hit his lungs—warm, familiar, unshakably you. It clung to him, settled in his chest, and for a moment he felt like he’d stepped into a memory instead of reality. Then it hit him all at once. He was here. In your space. Too close, closer than he’d been since that night he showed you he was alive again. And then left, like a ghost that had clawed its way back into the ground.

The weight of it pinned him against the door. His head reeled with reasons why he shouldn’t have crossed the threshold. Too many to count. Too many to fight. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too hard.

The sound of your feet shuffling snapped him out of the spiral. You’d already set your things down, your bag hitting the table with a soft thud, your hand running through your hair as if shaking the night off your shoulders. Jason tracked every step as you crossed into the hallway, pulling open a closet with a familiarity that made his chest ache. You grabbed a stack of small white cloths, disappeared into the bathroom, the rush of running water following after you. He stayed near the door, frozen like he was still outside on some rooftop watching you through glass, unseen, unnoticed. 

Your head peeked out from the bathroom doorframe. Tentative. Your eyes flicked everywhere but him, like the air between you both was too thick to stand in.

“Come on,” you murmured, tilting your head before disappearing back inside.

Jason forced his body to move, tried to empty his head of everything that screamed this wasn’t real. He stepped into the small bathroom, taking note of everything in a desperate bid to normalize it: the faint hum of the fan overhead, the tired buzz of the flickering bulb, the sharp tropical sweetness of the air freshener clinging to the walls. Normal, mundane things. You stood by the sink, the wet cloth sliding through your fingers, twisting with nervous energy as you glanced at him expectantly.

“Uh…” Your throat worked before the words came out, a little too thin. “You gonna take off your mask, or are you really trying to lean into that creepy stalker vibe?”

Jason’s jaw flexed. He turned toward the mirror above the sink, and the reflection that stared back at him looked every inch the what you’d just described. The deep red mask sealing away his face, the leather jacket scarred and smeared with someone else’s blood, the bat-symbol etched across his chest, dulled and scratched, the gun heavy at his hip. He looked like the boogeyman. Maybe he was. And yet, somehow, you’d still let him in.

Jason swallowed, the sound sharp in his throat, and tugged the helmet off slowly. Careful. Almost reluctant. He set it down on your counter with a dull clunk, the absence of it making him feel stripped, raw. His eyes never left you. He braced himself for you to look away, to flinch, to scatter your gaze like before.

But you didn’t. You studied him instead, unflinching. Drinking him in like you couldn’t help yourself, like your eyes had been starved for the sight of him. Jason’s stomach knotted under the weight of it. His head went light, his chest too tight, like he might crack open under the softness of your stare. You looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon, wasn’t a ghost, wasn’t something damned. You looked at him like he was just Jason.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Silence hung heavy in the cramped bathroom, every second stretched thin with electricity neither of you dared to break. He stared back, helpless. Couldn’t stop himself.  

Your hands rise again, the cloth gliding over skin where the blood had clung stubbornly from his earlier fights. The warmth seeps through, a quiet shock each time it presses against him. You move with a patience he doesn’t deserve, gentle, deliberate, as if you’re afraid he might splinter if you’re too rough. Jason feels it all: the careful drag of fabric, the way your knuckles brush his jaw, the faint tremor in your fingers that you’re trying hard to hide.

He doesn’t mean to lean into you, doesn’t mean for his body to betray him like this. But his shoulders loosen, his jaw unclenches, and his pulse slows to match your rhythm. It’s instinctive, bone-deep, the kind of surrender that terrifies him. And then your scent hits him again, grounding, overwhelming. He drowns in it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, tilting his chin slightly so you can reach the other side of his neck.

Jason’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, almost something else. “Like what?” The words scrape low in his throat, the only way he can keep them steady.

Your gaze lifts to his, fleeting, but enough to gut him. “Like nothing changed.”

The words land harder than any blow he’s taken tonight. Jason freezes, his head jerking back a fraction as though bracing for impact. His eyes narrow, his defenses flicker back into place—but only for a heartbeat. Because then you keep going, your hand steady as you wipe away the last streaks of red, as if each pass of the cloth is stripping him down further. Not just the blood. His fury. His armor. He should tell you to stop. He should put the mask back on, slip out the door, vanish into the shadows where he belongs. But he can’t. He can’t when you’re this close, when your voice is this soft, when you touch him like the grave didn’t separate you once.

He knows what it must have been like for you. The loss, the grief, the hole he left behind. He imagines it and nearly buckles under the weight. To have him ripped away, then shoved back into your orbit. And tonight he followed you, saved you, bled for you, only to end up here, undermining his own resolve. Erasing his own distance and the very reason he created it in the first place.

There’s too much between you now, and none of it makes sense. He can’t figure a way out of it. It hollows him out, leaves him breathless as he looks at you. At the one thing that hasn’t changed. 

Because despite everything, despite death and rage and blood, the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. He still loves you.

“Things have changed,” Jason says finally, voice plain but edged with something heavier. He tilts his head up, trying for casual, like the words aren’t scraping against his ribs. “I’m enjoying the moment, though.”

Your eyebrows shoot up before you can stop them, and the cloth in your hand hesitates mid-swipe. Jason almost smirks at how transparent you still are, but then you recover, dragging the damp fabric lower over the plates of his armor, focusing on the stubborn dark-red stains clinging there. He catches the quick flick of your tongue over your lips—nervous habit, one he remembers like muscle memory—and the sight digs under his skin in a way no blade ever could.

“How long have you been watching me?” Your voice wavers on the question, quiet, careful, but it cuts through the hum of the bathroom fan all the same.

Jason stiffens, every instinct in him calculating what the right answer should be, though he knows there isn’t one that won’t sound bad. “Uh, I’m not watching you, I’m monitoring your building,” he tries, tone steady, like rephrasing it might make it sound less insane.

But you freeze entirely this time, hand falling from his chest to your side, and lift your chin to look at him full-on. The blankness of your stare makes him itch beneath the mask he’s no longer wearing.

“I saw you at the Halloween party.” Your words slice clean, your voice calmer now, too calm. “Which, if I remember right, was like… twenty minutes away from here.”

Jason opens his mouth, shuts it again, and then defaults to the kind of shrug that’s gotten him out of worse interrogations. “That was a big party.” His tone is almost flippant, almost convincing, except he knows you. Knows the way you’re giving him that sideways, cheeky grin like you’re already several steps ahead of him in this dance. And God, he missed that look, how it makes the edges of his chest ache in something between fondness and longing.

For a second, the tension dissolves into that old familiarity, a ripple of what it used to feel like between you. Jason clings to it, silent, like maybe if he keeps it alive in the space between you, you won’t notice how much darker the rest of him has become.

You let your hand fall, the damp cloth slipping from your fingers and landing on the counter beside his discarded mask soundlessly. For a moment, neither of you move. Then you drag your palm down over the lower half of your face, like you’re trying to wipe away the jumble of thoughts crowding in, before you shift back a step. Still, your head tilts just enough to keep him in view, your gaze stubborn even as you put distance between you.

“Are you being safe, at least?” The words come out softer than you mean them to, tired but edged with that familiar care. Your eyes flick over him, tracing what skin is visible, searching for cuts or bruises he hasn’t mentioned. Jason feels the air leave his chest in a rush. When was the last time anyone even asked him that? When was the last time he let himself think about it?

He almost laughs, but it would break something fragile in the room. Instead, he steadies his voice, low and sure. “Always.” The lie rolls off his tongue as naturally as breathing. If it gives you one less thing to worry about, if it keeps your shoulders from tensing under the weight of him, then it’s worth it. That’s what makes him so dangerous: how easily he can bend the truth if it keeps you calm. And you nod, like that answer is enough. Like you’re willing to believe it just so you can sleep at night. That’s what makes you so impossible for him to stay away from. Too easy to fall back into.

You hesitate, the faint shift in your body hinting at pulling away, and it hits Jason like a jolt of electricity. He can’t let this fade into nothing. Not tonight, not after everything. The nights spent haunted, the fights, the silence, the longing that never left. He wants you, and even if you push him off, yell at him, or tell him he’s insane, it’s better than letting this slip after he put everything back on the line already. Every heartbeat since you welcomed him in had been a risk, and he’d already passed the point of saying no.

His hand reaches for you, curling around your wrist with a firm but careful grip, drawing you closer. He leaves just enough space for you to step back, a silent question lingering in the tense air: Do you want this, too?

You don’t move. You tilt your face up, lips parting just slightly, eyes wide and searching his. There’s something unspoken there, a quiet permission he can feel vibrating through the small space between you. Slowly, gently, your lips brush his. Just a touch—but it’s all the confirmation he needs.

The rush of it makes him dizzy. He frees your wrist, letting his hand cup your jaw, thumb tracing delicately along your cheek as if memorizing the warmth of you. His other hand rests on your hip, anchoring you to him, grounding both of you in this moment. Your fingers weave into his hair, tugging gently, while the other drifts over his chest, tentative, almost afraid of how real it feels. Every brush of skin, every soft shift of weight, every breath you take together hums with tension. The space between you narrows until it almost disappears, and Jason leans closer, savoring the heat radiating from your body, the subtle scent of you that floods his senses. 

He presses his lips against yours, and the world narrows to nothing else. Every brush of his mouth against yours, every whisper of warmth, feels like it could vanish if he hesitates for even a second. You under his hands, close enough to taste, he can’t let this moment slip away.

His lips move over yours with a careful intensity, memorizing the curve of your mouth. The faint scent of you—soft, intoxicating—makes it impossible to think beyond the press of your bodies. One hand slides to the back of your head, threading into your hair to hold you steady, guiding the rhythm of your closeness. The other at your hip hooks under your leg and lifts you onto the counter with ease. 

You gasp softly, a shiver in your chest, but your eyes stay closed, only flicking open now and then to find him, searching, tethering yourself to him again. His mouth follows yours like a compass, lips meeting yours with a pressure that’s desperate and tender all at once. He leans in, heart hammering, and the subtle tug of your hands in his hair, the tilt of your head into his, makes him certain you feel it too. He leans his hips against yours just enough to feel the friction, then pulls back slightly, only to meet your lips again, seeking that connection as if grounding himself in you is the only way to stay whole. The soft hum of your moan brushes against his lips, vibrating against him. 

And then, gentle but firm, your palms press against his chest, creating the tiniest of spaces between you, a measured pause that sends an ache through him.

Jason hovers there, just above you, lips still glistening from your kiss, a single strand of hair falling across his forehead. His tongue peeks out unconsciously, craving the memory of your taste, his body refusing stillness after what he’s just felt. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs, voice low and ragged, dipping his head as if searching your eyes will give him the answer.

You press a hand over your mouth, as though trying to catch yourself, to anchor yourself to reality, yet you remain lost in thought, gazing at the floor. His chest tightens at the sight. “Baby,” he breathes, voice rough with need and tenderness, and the single word cuts through your hesitation in a heartbeat. You slip from the counter, but your body still lingers against his, movement delayed, as if the air itself refuses to let you separate. You look up at him, and the way his eyes catch yours makes your breath hitch. He mirrors you, head tilting in silent understanding, chest brushing against yours.

“If you want to come back, then I’m here,” you say finally, and an uncomfortable weight pools in his stomach. “But if you want to keep leaving, then stay gone.”

Jason shakes his head slowly, hands sliding down your arms, lingering just to feel you one last time. Every fiber of him trembles with the temptation to pull you back, to ignore reason, but he knows the words he’s about to say could shatter everything fragile between you. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is,” he whispers, his voice low, deliberate, almost fragile, as if the softness of it could keep the weight from crushing you both.

Unlike the first night he came back, you don’t argue. You just nod, small, quiet, like you’ve already expected the answer. And that stillness guts him more than anything else could. He swallows the ache, forcing his features into concentration, a mask for everything storming inside. Every inch of him is screaming to pull you close, to erase the space between you again, but he forces himself to step back first, claiming a shred of control before his desire breaks every boundary.

This isn’t good for you. He isn’t good for you. And no matter how much it tears at him, he won’t let his own wants compromise your safety—like tonight, like the alley, like every other night he’s lived in the shadow of his own recklessness.

“Then stay gone,” you declare, final, steady. There’s no hesitation, no pleading in your voice, and it cuts him. His jaw tightens, lips pressing into a hard line, but he doesn’t respond. He leans just slightly, reaching for his mask resting on the counter behind you, and in that closeness, he memorizes every detail one last time. He breathes in your scent, studies the curve of your nose, the subtle flickers of color in your eyes, the way the light hits your cheek. He tries to store it all, every fragment, because he knows he can’t stay.

Slowly, he pulls the mask back over his head, the barrier slipping into place, a shield from the vulnerability that almost crushed him. Without looking back, he strides toward the door. He doesn’t allow himself the luxury of glancing at you one final time, because if he did, he’d be lost making promises he could never keep, letting desire outweigh reason.

But just before he closes the door, he speaks over his shoulder, low and urgent: “Lock your door.”

The sound of the click as the lock engages behind him echoes in his mind as he steps back into the unforgiving streets of Gotham. The city presses in from all sides, cold, harsh, and chaotic—but his thoughts are consumed by the apartment, by the brush of your skin, by the quiet, steady pull of your eyes. Every thought is self-recriminating, bitter, impossible…except one: