Rain soaked socks

You walk without sound.

Your breathing stays even. You count your steps—seven, eight, nine—memorizing the rhythm of the corridor, the precise angle of each turn, the places where the floorboards creak the faintest whisper beneath the stone.

Just as the group reaches a pair of tall doors carved with twisting vines and hidden thorns, a woman steps out from a side passage. Older than the attendants, her hair drawn into a severe, gleaming knot, she carries a narrow slate of polished black stone. Her eyes do not sweep the line.

They find you.

Not linger. Select.

“This one,” she says. The words fall quiet and certain, like a single pebble dropped into still water.

A small hand tightens desperately around your sleeve. The girl next to you—dark braids, tear-streaked cheeks—looks up with wide, frantic eyes and shakes her head.

“No,” she whispers, barely audible. “Please… don’t take her. She’s quiet. She won’t cause trouble.”

You feel the tremor in her fingers.

Very gently, you peel her hand away.

You do not speak.

You do not ask why.

You simply step forward and follow.

The room they bring you to is smaller than you imagined—almost intimate. Bare stone floor. Pale silk screens brushed with minimalist ink strokes: a single crane in flight, a lotus half-unfurled. A low black table sits at the exact center of the space. Somewhere unseen, incense burns—clean, cedar-sharp, almost medicinal.

Lady Xiu Raatko waits behind the table.

She does not rise.

She does not need to.

Her presence expands to fill every corner of the room the moment you cross the threshold. She regards you the way a swordsmith regards steel: without warmth, without haste, but with absolute attention. Two attendants stand motionless behind her—identical in posture, identical in blank expression, like twin shadows given human shape.

“Stand,” Lady Xiu says. Voice low. Melodic. Final.

You do.

She gives the smallest tilt of her head.

The attendants move.

Their hands are cool, efficient, utterly impersonal. They test the line of your spine, the balance of your hips, the natural set of your shoulders. Fingers press lightly at your wrists, your ankles, gauging reflex, resistance, the way your muscles coil beneath skin. They lift your arms, adjust your stance, turn your chin with the barest pressure.

Your body answers before your mind can catch up.

A sharp twist. Your wrist snaps free. Your elbow rises in a clean arc—instinctive, lethal, ready to drive into a throat that isn’t there. You take one measured step back, weight dropping into your heels, center of gravity low.

The room goes still.

The attendants shift to restrain you—

Lady Xiu lifts one finger.

“Enough.”

They freeze. Hands drop. They retreat two steps in perfect unison.

Lady Xiu’s gaze sharpens—not anger. Interest. The faintest spark behind the calm.

“You have instincts,” she murmurs. “Good ones. Fast ones.”

Your heart is hammering now, but your face betrays nothing.

She lets the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable.

“Do you know where you are?”

“No,” you answer. Truth. Simple.

“Do you know why you are here?”

You hesitate only a heartbeat. “Because someone paid for me.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. Not quite a smile. Acknowledgment.

“And why do you believe they chose you, specifically?”

You think of the container. The dark. The voices outside. The way you kept your mouth shut when the others begged and wept.

“I didn’t make noise,” you say quietly. “I didn’t slow them down. I was… easy to move.”

Lady Xiu nods once, slow and deliberate, as though you have just confirmed a hypothesis she formed long before you entered the room.

You lift your chin the smallest fraction. “What is this place?”

She leans back, folding her hands in her lap with elegant economy.

“To the world outside these walls,” she begins, “this was once called a finishing academy. A quiet, expensive place where daughters of wealth were sent to learn the arts of refinement—dance, music, languages, the correct way to pour tea, the correct way to smile. They emerged polished. Acceptable. Marriageable.”

She pauses, letting the image settle.

“The world believes such places vanished generations ago.”

Her eyes lock onto yours, steady as stone.

“The world is mistaken.”

She gestures with one graceful hand toward the painted screens. “Beauty has always been a weapon, child. It opens doors. It lowers guards. It invites people to step closer than they should.” Her voice remains calm, almost instructional. “Here we teach girls how to wield it properly.”

You listen. You do not interrupt.

Lady Xiu tilts her head, studying you anew.

“You are not distressed.”

It is not a question.

“You did not weep in the container,” she continues. “You did not ask for your mother. You did not beg to go home. You did not even ask what would happen next.”

Your throat tightens, but you keep your silence.

She exhales—soft, almost fond.

“You learned very young that no one was coming.”

The words strike clean. True.

“Girls who still wait to be saved,” she says, “do not last here.”

You meet her gaze. “Then what happens to me?”

She considers you for a long, measuring moment.

“You will be watched.”

The answer is colder than any threat.

She rises at last—fluid, unhurried—and circles you slowly, her silk whispering against the stone.

“There are two paths within this Order,” she says. “The Swan. Discipline. Stillness. Precision. The blade that strikes once and vanishes.” She stops directly in front of you. “And the Peacock. Display. Seduction. The slow unraveling of another’s mind until they hand you the knife themselves.”

You hold her eyes.

“Most girls fall clearly into one path or the other,” she continues. “Some fit neither.”

She steps back.

“You,” she says quietly, “are still… unresolved.”

She turns to the attendants. “Prepare a private chamber.”

They do not return you to the line of girls.

Instead they lead you down a narrower corridor, quieter, the lanterns dimmer. A door opens onto a small, perfect room: low bed dressed in pale silk, a porcelain wash basin, folded garments laid out with ceremonial care.

Not a cell.

A consideration.

As the door closes behind you with a soft, final click, you sit on the edge of the bed. Hands loose in your lap. Body humming with something new—not terror, not hope.

Recognition.

They have not yet decided what shape you will take.

But they have already decided you are worth shaping.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

Jason hated being in an asylum. Well, this wasn't an asylum it was a 'mental hospital for the criminally insane,' it was better than Arkham at least. He was treated like an actual person here and not like cattle. He received three meals a day, good medication, therapy and even outside time every day. It sure beat Arkham's dark and torturous methods. Plus, there was one patient he was glad was here with him. He would never admit that out loud though.

Jason was eating breakfast when he saw Y/N walk in. Your face lit up when you saw Jason. You sat across from him with your food.

'Morning, Jay.'

'Morning, angel. I heard they had to sedate you last night,' he said. Your smile faded a little and you nodded.

'Yeah... I had a nightmare and became a bit uncontrollable,' you muttered.

'It happens to the best of us, angel.'

'Thanks, Jay,' you said with a small smile. 'Is Bruce coming for visiting day tomorrow?'

'Yeah, like usual,' he grumbled.

'I know you don't like him coming to visit, but I think it's sweet that he does.'

'Please, you're just saying that because he likes you and gives you attention,' he said.

'Well, I don't have visitors so it's nice when he comes.'

Jason sighed and rolled his eyes. 'Fine, I guess it's nice he visits.'

'Plus, he always brings me gifts,' you said as Jason rolled his eyes again and chuckled.

'You're very easily bribed, you know that?'

--

You were the first one awake the next morning and you sat down at your usual table with a tray of breakfast. You waited a while before a nurse came out to you. 'Jason has to be in isolation for a few more hours. It's best to you eat without him,' she said. You sighed and nodded a little.

'Is he okay?'

'Yes, he just had a rough night and didn't get any sleep. He'll be okay, Y/N,' she said before walking away.

After breakfast you sat in the corner and did some drawing while everyone else spoke to their visitors. You heard the door open again and looked up to see Bruce entering. You giggled and ran over to him.

'Hi, Bruce!' you said with excitement. Bruce smiled and felt his heart warm at your excitement.

'Hey, sweetheart. They told me Jason needs a bit more time. Why don't you and I go out in the gardens for a bit?' he asked. Bruce knew you didn't have anyone and he knew how hard visiting day was for you.

'Yes please! I love the garden, I have to show you some of the new herbs I helped plant,' you said as he smiled and followed you outside.

Bruce enjoyed visiting here, he got to see what an actual mental hospital should be. He had seen the horrors of Arkham and this place helped regain some hope for him. Everyone here wasn't treated like a criminal, they were helped and encouraged to grow. Bruce felt at ease while he listened to you explain all the new plants that had been planted since the last time.

After a few minutes a nurse told Bruce that he could see Jason, but he had to go alone. 'Alright, I'll come back and see you soon. Before that, I brought you a little gift,' he said as he pulled out a small handmade doll that looked like you.

'Woah... It looks like me!' you said in amazement as he chuckled.

'I saw it at a market and thought it was the perfect gift considering it looks exactly like you,' he said with a small laugh. You smiled brightly and hugged him.

'Thank you! She's so beautiful,' you whispered. Bruce smiled and hugged you back tightly before he left to see Jason.

You went back to your room for a little while and rearranged a few of the toys to see where your doll would look best.

'I see he spoiled you again,' a voice said. You turned to see Jason and smiled. He looked exhausted and you knew his sedatives would be wearing off. You shuffled forward cautiously and looked at him.

'You okay?'

'I'm okay, princess... Just a hard night,' he said as he walked in and sat on your bed. You handed the doll to him and he chuckled. 'Looks like a voodoo doll of you,' he said as you laughed softly.

'Did Bruce get you a gift?'

'Yeah, a new pillow. Sounds lame but it's some expensive special one... Don't tell him but it's the best thing I've ever laid on,' he said. You chuckled and sat beside him.

'I'm really glad you have him. I know that sounds cheesy and stuff, but...you deserve a family,' you said. Jason looked at you and handed the doll back to you.

'You deserve one too, Y/N. I know you might not have one right now, but you will one day. For the moment I don't mind you stealing my fucked up family,' he said. You smiled and looked at him.

'So, where should I put this clone doll?'

'Hmm...' Jason stood up and took the doll. 'I think window sill, so it's like she's always watching.'

Of course, when Roy brings it up, rolls of gauze clutched into the crook of his elbow, Jason just works his jaw with one hand in his hair, the other scribbling in red Sharpie. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason drawls, face steeled to perfection. He doesn't even look up, too busy brooding down at the spread of documents and maps pinned down by several empty cans of Coke; a few drops of sweet, dark soda stain the papers. 

“You know, I heard from a little Robin,” Roy sings, sauntering over and dumping the gauze onto the small table—one roll bounces onto the floor and off Jason’s slippers, “that you have a girl.” 

Gotcha. Wind had reached Roy from Donna, who had heard from Wally, who had heard from Dick, who had so on and so forthed until the rumor could be traced back to a certain grumpy, spiky-haired sidekick who claims to have seen the second Robin dreamily admiring a nurse as she patched him up on the floor of her apartment.

That makes Jason look up. A shadow crosses his face, one that makes an odd kind of shiver tickle at Roy’s nape. It’s the same kind of look that comes when things go sideways or shit blows up when it isn’t supposed or when Batman does something that really sets him off. 

(But like father, like son. The way Jason is practically glaring at that loose-leaf pile of shit looks just like those old photos of B sent to a long-destroyed phone. Courtesy of Dick, who always has a field day spamming the Titans’ defunct, triple-encrypted groupchat when he happens to be back in Gotham.) 

And then Jason looks to the pile of little, unused rolls spilled across the table. Like—really looks at them, as if it’s the first he’s ever heard of gauze. Then he tilts his head and stares at Roy, mouth pressed into a razor-thin line. 

“Really?” Jason says, brows lifting like he’s totally disinterested. Then he points a finger at himself, really humored. “You think I have a girlfriend? ‘Cause what, I'm well stocked, or Damian said so?” 

Roy narrows his eyes, hands immediately coming up in defense. “I never said it was Damian.” 

“Just giving an example.” 

Jason shrugs—too casual to be innocent—but Roy’s already caught on long before that. The little flicker of ‘oh, shit’ across his face, the slightest thread of apprehension shooting through his deeply furrowed brow. 

Perks of being a deadeye: you catch all the shit everyone else misses. 

So. That little gremlin was telling the truth about seeing his adopted brother—or however the hell their relationship works—sneaking into a girl’s apartment and being all lovey-dovey with her even though he’s literally a menace to the city. 

And a menace to Roy, because Jason’s ticking jaw is starting to look like he’s on the edge of flipping the damn table. 

"Alright." Roy concedes despite the nagging itch in his head. Jason Todd is lying. "If you say so." 

"That's what I thought." 

— 

Contrary to Jason's (likely) belief, things don't end at the medicine cabinet. In fact, that had just been the start. 

The next revelation comes when they’re supposed to be infiltrating the Iceberg Lounge for a business exchange between a mysterious broker and the Penguin—back from a brief stint in jail, again, much to Jason and everyone else’s chagrin. 

This is a no-mask occasion, just to play the harmless civilian and not get a beatdown from the bouncers. 

It’s loud inside the lounge, a heavy bass beat thrumming at such a strength that Roy is wary to even brush up against the walls. The soles of his boots stick to the floor, gummy in the way only nightclubs can be; the air is soaked with the scent of sweat and booze. He’s already flicked his shades on and pushed them all the way up to his eyelashes, but the strobe lights flashing through the nightclub still need squinting to get through. 

Thus, he almost misses Jason’s hand tapping on his shoulder, too busy shrugging off the hot press of clubbers swarming the floor. 

Roy turns, raising his eyebrows at his partner. He gets the feeling that this is a little strange, being on a mission bare faced with a stupid Gotham U shirt and a half-broken comm chip in the ear. Jesus, he looks and feels like a frat guy despite being a decade too old.  

Jason doesn’t seem to mind though, dressed in a thin, maroon hoodie that does nothing to hide his shoulders, and grey jeans. Casual, in a nonchalant way. The I’m a frat who just threw on whatever and I’m ready to get sloshed way. 

His hand is still incessantly tapping on Roy’s shoulder, not really aware that they’re already facing each other, Roy expectant and ready to listen. 

“Hell-o?” 

“Oh.” Jason blinks, seemingly snapped out of it. There’s a sort of far-off look in his eyes, mouth barely parted, like he’s just seen a ghost and he’s trying to hide it. His gaze darts around, but it’s inevitably drawn to the blue-neon shelves on a back wall. 

Slow to say, tongue wetting his bottom lip, “I’ll take the bar.” 

Roy huffs, crossing his arms. “Alright. I’ll take the floor.” 

They both nod to themselves, though Jason looks very satisfied that he’s gotten what he wanted. Usually, they flip a coin or play rock-paper-scissors or use whatever is on hand at the time to decide scouting positions. 

Like that one time, with the water bottle. They had spent so long trying to get it to land upright that they almost missed their cue. 

But that’s a story for another night, because Jason is peeling away and making quick strides to the bar. He slides into an empty stool to the left of a woman, leaning his elbow on the counter with a small smile. 

Roy posts up against a wall on the opposite side of the bar, eyes roving. There’s a suspicious-looking guy in the far corner—a black suit type, slicked back hair and shiny laced loafers swimming with a leather-warped reflection of the strobe lights. The man is nursing a glass of whiskey, dark amber liquid turned to pitch when the music switches up. 

He scoots closer for a better look at their potential broker, and then he catches a glance of Jason at the bar, still talking to... 

Oh, shit. 

The screenshot passed around hero communications like a virus resurfaces in Roy’s mind. Sure, she’s wearing a cute outfit and some makeup instead of soft sleep clothes, but it’s unmistakable. 

Jason Todd is talking up his not-girlfriend in the Iceberg Lounge during a mission. 

People’s eyes bugging out of their sockets used to be an impossible concept, and yet. Here he is, helpless on the other side of the club as all the little pieces click together and catch up to him. 

The hardly used medical supplies. The ‘oh, shit’ look. The fact that Jason lied to Roy’s face.  

You smile in that teasing, kind of girly way you did in Damian’s leaked screenshot, much to Jason’s apparent enjoyment. He leans the side of his head on his left fist, that elbow in turn balanced on the bar top. 

Transfixed, Jason watches your hands move as you explain the mentality behind the designated driver role, how your day went, and say something that sounds like: it was super chaotic, but I can’t really say more ‘cause of HIPPA, so… 

Wait. 

Roy can hear you. 

He has to laugh softly to himself when he realizes. Fuck, Jason is so whipped that he isn’t aware of the fact that propping his head up has activated their comm chip. 

Not so much of a tough guy now, it seems. 

Keeping an eye on the could-be broker, Roy presses his earpiece in a little deeper and plugs his other ear to block out most of the club’s thrumming noise. 

“Anyway,” you say, and even though Roy can’t see it, he knows you’re grinning wide. “What do you do, stranger?” 

Roy’s eyes flick to the ceiling, but only for a fractured second ‘cause the lights are starting to give him a headache. Of course you don’t know his civilian identity. 

“Uh—” and there’s that telltale sound of Jason wetting his lips “—you could call me Jay. I’m…a fixer.” 

Funny. Fixer is quite a versatile word, it seems. 

You laugh in a tone Roy has only heard when a girl looks down and brushes her hair away. “Is it weird that I kind of guessed? I dunno, you just look like a guy who’s good with his hands.” And then a little faster, earnest, “I’m so sorry, Jay, that came out—” 

“No, no,” Jason is quick to interject, “I appreciate it.” 

“Is it weird that I think you’re a great guy after talking for five minutes?” you ask after a moment. For the briefest second, Roy manages a peek over to the bar—you’re mirroring Jason’s pose, except the hand you aren’t resting your chin on is tracing the rim of a crystal water glass. You smile, close-mouthed, and he gets it. Gets why Jason is so drawn to you (even if Roy doesn’t feel the beckon himself). 

It’s a kind look about you. An open flame, ready to warm. You look at people without expectation, and knowing Jason, that’s big. He doesn’t have to be the Big Bad or the sweet, martyred Robin for you. 

You know the cabinetry of Jason’s body so well already, and most of all, you know him at his most vulnerable. Blue-green doe eyes, sweat-matted hair, hydrangea-bloom bruises—the whole works. 

You stand for everything Jason protects in the world: the raw, unfiltered good. 

Roy snaps back to what he’s supposed to be watching right as Jason ekes out a rough chuckle. 

“Sounds like you have some assholes in your life. Need a hand?” Jason says it in the stilted, fish-out-of-water way he always does when he’s trying to flirt without fulfilling the half-dead requirement first. 

At arm’s length, quivering for the chance to come closer. Like two poles on a magnet, rejection and attraction. 

(Mhmm, an asshole, Roy thinks, I wonder who. He feels like putting his head in his hands and screaming.) 

Giggling like you’re kind of drunk and aren’t the designated driver, “It’s just one. Well, kind of—he’s…a guy who shows up sometimes.” A pause, as if you’re thoughtfully tonguing the next words into your cheek. “He’s a fixer too, in a different way, but I think he’s really sweet under all that meanness.” 

Jason hums, considerate and falsely sympathetic. “I’m sure he’ll come around someday.” 

(This fucking dickwad just loves to play in everyone’s faces.) 

“Sorry,” you breathe for the second time tonight, “you just have this really reassuring feeling, but I don’t wanna put my troubles on you.” 

“Well, I did technically start this,” Jason says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he has the gall to sound sheepish. Roy almost can’t believe his ears. 

“Right, right,” you agree, that smiley sound in your voice again. Then you pitch it down, mimicking, “Rough day? Looks like you’ve seen some shit.” 

“That’s—I don’t sound like that.” 

(Agree to disagree. You’re pretty good with Jason’s tone.) 

Scoffing in amusement, you tease, “You do.” 

“Even if I did, you definitely practiced that,” he says. It’s in a fake-nonchalant voice that Roy can instantly pinpoint even through the shitty Bluetooth connection and the club’s deafening EDM slop. Jason really is defying all expectations tonight. 

You hum, “I might’ve picked it up from a certain guy. Can’t help it—you have the same accent.” 

That gives Jason pause, if only for a moment. The cylinders in his brain are probably firing at maximum power. “That’s...impressive.” 

Roy wipes a rough hand over his eyes. God, can this guy’s game get any worse? 

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Roy considers picking up a better job than people-watching. For example: right now, he could be building a crazy spaceship to take him to a planet far, far from Earth and Jason’s hopeless situation. 

A flicker of movement catches his eye. Approaching the broker is one of the Penguin’s bodyguards—Roy remembers him from the last encounter they had with the crime lord. He’d whipped his bow into the guard’s nose. 

Still looks like that nasty break hasn't healed well. 

Slipping a deft hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a vape. At least, that’s what the bouncers thought it was when they patted him down. 

Roy disassembles it, and a little silver pipe slides into his palm. It’s warm against his skin. A mini blowgun is definitely not his ideal weapon, but a guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. 

And now, that’s to shoot a tiny bug onto the broker’s jacket. 

The man is already mid-escort to the stairwell that leads to the more private lounge, flanked on the right by the bodyguard. It's a tough shot, and it’s dark and noisy and stuffy as hell in the club, but it’s also Roy Harper who’s doing this. 

(Duh, it’s in the name. Arsenal, former protégé of Green Arrow, anyone?) 

Slotting the pipe between his lips, he waits for the perfect moment. In a dense, obstructed club like this one, the stars would have to align for him to make the shot. 

He does anyway, the tiny listening dart flying across the room and latching onto the broker’s shoulder. 

Pat on the back, Roy Harper, he thinks, mission well done. 

— 

“She looked kind of familiar,” Roy teases as they stroll out of the club, almost singing.  

The thudding bass is still audible, even from the other side of the doors, and his ears will probably be ringing for another week. Not that he needs them to maintain his stellar aim, but how will he listen to Dick’s incessant voice messages about his recent round of stalking Jason’s not-girlfriend's LinkedIn? 

Their feet are light on the concrete, only making a greater degree of sound when they briskly traverse the many puddles plaguing Gotham. 

Case in point: Lake Glenn, named after Glenn Avenue, where a twelve-foot-long, shallow concrete basin of stale rainwater is slowly colonizing the remaining sidewalk. It reeks of piss and sour dick, too.  

Meanwhile, Jason seems eerily at peace. They cross the street to avoid the pond of pee, and he’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans.  

He dodges a whirlwind of litter—it curls into a ball and bounces down the sidewalk like fucking tumbleweed—with a pep in his step. One block over, a patrol car wails out a single chirp, and Jason doesn’t pay any mind.  

Roy has never seen a smile linger this long on his partner’s lips, and it almost looks uncanny. 

He seriously considers grabbing the other man and howling: who are you and what have you done to my best friend’s little brother?  

Jason Todd does not walk with a bouncy gait. He doesn’t stick his hands in his pockets, where the confinement can double the time needed to grab the nearest weapon. And it’s certainly more-than-irregular to ignore a police siren and keep a faint smirk of anything but smugness on his face for more than five minutes. 

Diana H. Themyscira, he’s in love and he’s stupid with it. 

Instead, Roy just slips back into his practiced nonchalance and truthfully remarks, “Seems like a good person.” 

“She is.” 

The answer is curt. Stony. No room for questions, but boy, does Roy have questions. 

And since when has he paid any mind to social conventions? 

Naturally, he must keep pushing. “Alright, I can excuse blatant flirting on the job, but dancing?” 

Jason grimaces, finally wiping off that disgustingly fond expression on his face. “We didn’t—” 

“Dude, you don’t even try to defend yourself—I saw you grinding on her like a lovey-dovey teenage boy with both of my deadeyes.” 

The chilly, damp air of the city does nothing to disguise the way his ears bloom with a dusty pink. The Red Hood may be able to school his face, but he still can’t control the involuntary rush of blood to his ears. 

Roy almost coos at the adorable observation, but he rather likes the shape of his nose right now.  

Anyways, the thought is quickly overwritten by the sheer regret of witnessing how Jason’s fingers twitched when you guided them to grasp your waist on the dance floor. How his blue-green eyes sat at half-mast and dinner-plate dilated when he pulled your hips to his. How his lips had grazed the shell of your ear, whispering things that made your movements more desperate as you strayed from the pounding beat. 

Or how Jason, with a furrow of utter shame between his brows, definitely adjusted the fit of his clothing—specifically his jeans—after you kissed his cheek and bid a wistful, starry-eyed farewell because your friends needed you to step up as the designated driver. 

Said horny fool only scoffs, but a quiet smirk of amusement (holy shit, Roy just unlocked a new emotion) dawns on his face, and the sweet rays gradually brighten his gloomy countenance until the soft pink blush in his ears begins to warm his cheeks, too. 

And with it comes the slow, sweet creep of realization over Jason’s soldier-like posture. 

There’s that lovey-dovey look.

“Yeah,” Jason admits after that moment of reluctance, flicking his still-dilated gaze to a rare patch of starlight glimmering in Gotham’s cloudy sky. He lingers on the pretty sight, the rigidity in his shoulders melting slightly as newfound fondness swims in his eyes. “Maybe we did that.”