kal !

And there was nothing new about it. The sex, anyways. He enjoyed it. He liked the closeness, the heat, the release that was both physical and mental. And, of course, he liked that it felt good.

So he wasn’t sure why all of a sudden it felt like his chest was being crushed.

It all happened too fast. One second his eyes were fixed on you, watching, hands firm on your hips, his breath steady, synced with yours like for just a moment the two of you were one. And then his breath stuttered. His throat felt like something had wrapped around it and pulled tight. The air felt thick, sticking in his throat like he was choking on molasses.

He blinked hard, trying to wipe it away, but it did nothing to put the room back in place, it only continued to blur around the edges. Your sounds — the pretty whimpers, and soft, breathy gasps of his name — sounded distant, like the sound was traveling through water to get to his ears.

It sounded far away. Too far away. Too far.

No, no, no —

He tried to force himself out of it, tried to force himself to think his way back to reality, to figure out why this was happening.

You’re home.

He latched onto the thought, mind digging its claws into it.

Apartment. Bedroom. Bed.

He could feel the sheets under his back, the weight of you on top of him, the smell of the room. He went through it all. Everything he could see, hear, smell, feel. The whole bit. None of it seemed to help.

No blood. No bruises. All my limbs.

His eyes darted down to your body. A quick — almost tactical — assessment. And you were fine. No signs anything was wrong with you. No sign you were in pain, or in danger. Nothing was wrong. If anything, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Completely unaware of what was going on in his mind and body. No fault of yours, of course.

She’s okay.

You’re okay.

So why did he feel like this ?

Was it because he had you on top ? No. That couldn’t have been it. He had you ride him all the time. He liked it. Very quickly it had become one of his favorite positions. Laying back and watching you use him to make yourself feel good, grabbing your hips to fuck into you when you got too tired.

He’d never had an issue with it before. He loved it.

His grip on your hips tightened before he realized it, nails digging a little too hard into the skin, leaving behind shallow half-moon shaped indents in the soft flesh. The sting made you flinch, small and sharp.

“Stop —”

The word tore from his throat, felt like it was dragging glass along the muscle and tissue inside it. He pressed down, slowing the roll of your hips against his.

“I need you to stop —”

The panic in his voice, the way it shook and cut through everything else, had you scrambling off him in an instant. No hesitation, no question. Just moving, leaving cold where your weight and warmth had been.

Jason stayed where he was, laying flat on his back, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling. His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath caught on the way in and burned on the way out. His body felt wrong, like it wasn’t really his anymore.

The room felt off, like it had gotten smaller and smaller around him.

“Jay …” Your voice was careful now.

He felt the mattress shift next to him as you moved, felt you get closer before he actually saw your hand reaching out towards him. And something in his chest spiked, his body moving before his mind could.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could reach him. Too tight, he hadn’t meant it to be.

“Don’t —” He gripped on you loosened, but he didn’t let go, still holding you away. “Please don’t touch me right now.”

The request came out rough, but not angry. He wasn’t angry, he was scared. And his body had a bad habit of mixing the two up.

Confusion flickered over your face, your brows creasing, but you didn’t argue, didn’t push at him. You lowered your hand, bringing it back to rest in your lap.

“Are you okay ? Did I do something ?”

Jason only shook his head, the motion small and quick, and you weren’t sure which of your questions he was answering. He didn’t elaborate.

He forced himself to sit upright, dragging his hand down his face before pushing his sweat damp hair back off his forehead. His skin felt too tight, and every touch felt like he was being stabbed. Everything in and around him felt wrong.

He shifted to the edge of the bed, planting his feet against the carpet. His chest was still tight, breaths still burned, the world still felt small. He didn’t understand it.

“I need —” He swallowed hard, “I’m just … gonna go shower. Real quick.”

He didn’t wait for a response before getting up.

The lock on the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, followed by the sound of the running water.

He stepped in the shower before it had time to warm up, letting it hit him cold.

It helped.

A little.

For a second.

He pressed his forehead against the tile wall, letting the water run down his face and back. His heart was still racing, everything still felt too wrong, and too loud. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“What the hell ?”

He didn’t move to grab the soap, didn’t wash his hair. He didn’t do anything but stand there.

You’re safe.

He knew that. There was no threat, no danger. Nothing was happening, to him or to you. So why did he feel like there was, why was his body reacting like he was in some sort of crisis ?

Why did it feel like the world had him pinned down, stripped bare, with no way to get away —

His chest squeezed again.

He forced himself to breathe in, held it until his lungs burned, and let it out.

Again

Again

Again.

He’d never admit how long it took him to even out his breathing, to force the panic into something quieter. Not gone, not by a longshot. But quieter.

He still didn’t have an answer when he shut the water off.

He dried himself off quickly, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, tying them low around his hips. When he left the bathroom, hair still dripping onto his forehead, the bed was empty. For a second that made the panic feel sharp in his chest again.

Then he heard the quiet sounds of movement, the faint click of ceramic. He followed the sound down the hall to the kitchen. He found you at the counter, your back to him, dressed in a pair of soft underwear and a bra. Your hair was messy, shoulders relaxed in a way that showed him you weren’t upset.

You were just waiting. Always waiting.

Jason stepped up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back against him. His chin found your shoulder, taking its usual spot there.

You were making tea, and he could tell by the smell of it and the cup you were using that you were making it for him, not yourself. He watched your hands as you stirred honey into the cup, using that tiny spoon he always cracked jokes about. The one that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse, not a kitchen drawer.

You reached for the wooden salt jar next, stirring a pinch in with the same spoon. He remembered he cringed when you first showed him that. Now he can’t stand taking his tea any other way.

“‘M sorry …” He muttered against your cheek

Your free hand came up, fingers brushing against his jaw. It made his breath catch, softer this time. 

“No need to be sorry, Jaybie.” You assured him “Are you okay ?”

He shifted, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, pulling his shoulders in. A failed attempt to make himself smaller.

“Don’t know what happened” The admission made his mouth feel like it was full of sand and stones. “I’m sorry”

You didn’t rush to answer, letting the quiet linger comfortably as you finished his tea.

“It’s okay” You said gently, “You don’t need to know. Sometimes things just –”

“Don’t.” He didn’t mean to cut you off, and he didn’t mean to sound so snappy either. He forced himself to take a breath, forced his body to relax into yours before he tried again.

“I’m sorry. Just … Don’t do the feelings thing. I can’t –” He took another breath when he caught his tone again. “Just not right now.”

“Okay.” You nodded, “Habit.”

Apology.

Jason hummed against your skin.

Acceptance.

“Did you finish ?” He asked after a moment of quiet

“No.” You answered, no hesitation, no embarrassment or shame. Just a fact.

“But that’s okay.” You added, “I don’t need to finish every time”

Jason grunted against your skin, and that was enough to tell you that he did not agree with that statement.

“We can try again,” he suggested. But his tone was cautious, like he wasn’t quite sure.

And you picked up on that. Of course you did, it was how you were, how you’d always been.

You turned around in his arms, he raised his head to let you move, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours once you faced him.

“Hey …” Your hands came up, holding either side of his face between your palms. You tilted his head up until his eyes were on yours. It took more effort than he’d like to admit to hold them there.

“We don’t have to” You continued, “We can. But only if you’re okay.”

He was quiet for a while. Checking in with himself, his teeth biting into the skin inside his cheek as he thought it over.

He felt better. A little. Not good, but better

But there was still that lingering feeling. Something biting under his skin. There was a quiet squeezing in his chest still that hadn’t fully gone away, like a memory only his body seemed to remember, that his mind couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Maybe tomorrow ?” He whispered. He paused, letting out a soft, slow exhale. “Yeah … Yeah, maybe tomorrow.”

You smiled, bringing his face to yours to press a firm, gentle kiss against his cheek.

And deep down, you know it. You that is exactly what you are doing when you are first plowed with that nauseating, neverending, persistent feeling that eats away at your heart and poisons your mind, the feeling that first makes you stop and think, obsess over your insecurities, and question whether you really are good enough.

You know when you feel envy strike, when a sickening sense of inferiority crowds you in the shadow of that woman's loss against your best efforts, against your wishes.

You know it when suddenly you think that Toji's kisses have gone colder, that his eyes have shifted into darkness when you are around, that his mind is elsewhere when he is physically with you. You know it when that air of breeziness falls, and the honeymoon period of feeling as though you are floating gives away. You come crashing back to the ground, back into the land of doubt, the land of fear, the land of inadequacy.

And you know it's you, and only you, because Toji has never given you any reason to second guess his motives or his true feelings within your relationship.

The man had been so guarded when you first met him. He shoved you away enough times for you to learn that when he eventually let his guard down, it is not because he does not take you seriously but because he does, painfully and scarily so. It tore him apart so much to finally reveal himself to you that your self destructive habits fell by the wayside, and true love overpowered - a desire to help him, to open his eyes to the world that he can and does deserve.

Toji has only ever loved you. He has only ever cherished you like you could vanish into thin air at any second, loving you as if every day he has you is his last, never, ever risking the chance of taking you for granted. How could he, when you've become everything to him after he had been so lost for so long? After you brought reason, light, joy, and hope back into his life?

You know Toji loves you. You feel it. You see it.

But the fears come back regardless, so natural to you, you're surprised that they had even left. A shift in tone, an unanswered text, a fleeting kiss are all enough to send the first trigger shooting through your brain.

Then comes a lingering gaze on an old family picture with his ex that Toji forgot he had swimming in the caverns of his camera roll, swiftly swiped past with a blink back to reality.

It's all enough to set your mind off, to provoke the voices that roar in your head that you are not loved, but rather, a mere replacement. A placeholder. An empty husk serving in the space where someone used to be, someone who would be there still if cruel life had not stripped her from this world.

You begin to subconsciously compare yourself to her at every chance your mind gets to torture you. You begin to stare longer at the family picture that still sits on Megumi's window sill, to trace the counters in a daze, wondering if it was her who picked the marble finish in the kitchen - as you know Toji is not the kind of man who pays such things attention. You fall silent as your mind rages, absolving you of your speech, and twisting it into a curse upon your subconscious.

You think. You think. And think until it physically aches to do so, but no matter how much it hurts, you can not stop it. You can not shut it out. You can not make your thoughts go away. They simply expand, grow worse by the day, and if the questions were not already bad, the guilt that swarms you is ten times worse.

How could you obsess so much over a dead woman? Someone who is not even alive anymore? Someone whom this household you have weasled your way into lingers in the unspoken, in the air, behind the corners you turn, in the whistle of a kettle, in the eyes of his son, in the spaces you fill?

Its not right to think of her in such a way. To tarnish her memory by selfishly clinging onto this image that you could never truly know, to disgrace Toji's grief and his devotion to you by swearing that he could only ever love her, that it is not you he loves but the projection of her that he has utilized you for.

It's insane. You know it is. But you can not help it. You've never loved someone like this, nor have you ever loved someone who had not become single on his own accord but by force, by fate. As you sink into comfort, your mind awakes in alert. Its faith and belief in the reality of things slip away, and you are stuck believing lies, believing that you are not good enough, believing that a ghost would serve better in your place.

You've seen the pictures of Megumi's mother. She was radiant and beautiful, effortlessly so. You see the same softness in Megumi's eyes that she once had, and you wonder what Toji thinks every time he looks at the boy, if he has to push down the ache that stems from their striking similarities.

You find yourself looking in the morning and picking at your face, frowning at the reflection that stares back at you. You don't have here wild, raven hair, her smooth, perfect skin. You don't have whatever effect she had that drew Toji to her in the first place, that made him fall so deeply in love that when she faded away, he lost all sense of purpose.

You aren''t her. You could never be her, and you wonder how Toji bears to look at you. How he turns to you and smiles when you know deep down what he really wants, who he really yearns for, who you decide he imagines you to be.

You lay awake at night as he snores in your ear, arms wrapped tightly around your middle, and you wonder if he ever held her the same way. With one leg kicked up over your hips, his hands clutching you tight to his chest.

You wonder every night... is he dreaming of her? Do you really even exist to him if he only thinks of you as another version of her?

The fake version? The temporary?

You don't know when the last time it was when you got a full night's rest. You spend your evenings curled in his arms, staring at the ceiling with dark shadows under your eyes, lips clamped tight. As the second you close your eyes, the voices shout and steal any hope of sleep from you.

He doesn't really love you. You know that right?

He's only sleeping so well because he's pretending its her instead of you.

How could you ever think that he would love you after losing such a woman?

How could you even begin to compete with her?

And after a while, after enough self deprecation, after enough sleepless nights, you begin to subconsciously distance yourself from Toji. Not physically, but mentally.

When he kisses you, lips meeting your cheek in greeting, you shrink into your mind, body stilling as though you are a deer in headlights, eyes sharp and wide, lips clamped. Your voice has gone quieter - no longer lively and engaging but monotonous, timid, and almost cautious. Like you're afraid to be in his house. Like you are apologetic for your own presence.

You slip into a depression quite easily, and you don’t even think that Fushiguros realize, as you’re so distracted by your own thoughts. Why would they notice after all? It’s not like you’re Toji’s wife, nor are you Megumi or Tsumiki’s mother. Your emotions would likely just prove a further burden to them. After all, they lost so much when Megumi’s mother passed. You would only be further adding to such stress.

Yet, despite how you spiral into a pit of isolation, they do notice. Almost immediately, actually. It would be difficult to have ignored it. You display such a swift, drastic decline from your ordinarily bright and positive nature. And it worries the kids. It worries Toji.

Badly.

At first, he thinks he’s done something wrong when he notices you freeze at the slightest tough. Perhpaps, as usual, he's screwed up. He's said something stupid without thinking to hurt your feelings. But ordinarily, when you're upset with him, you let him know immediately. You don't go quiet, but in fact, you get loud. You challenge him, and despite his stubborness, he is forced to look within and rethink his actions.

You help him be better in that way.

So he rethinks it, but can not for the life of him understand what has happened, what's gone wrong. Do you resent him now? Have you lost all feelings for him? Has he made you feel trapped?

When he asks, you won't say. You'll simply flash him a smile that does not reach your eyes and tell him that you're fine. Despite the painful softness of your voice when you do that seems to pierce Toji straight through the heart, further emphasizing your lie. Despite that dark circles that run under your eyes, insinuating that you no longer sleep soundly with him at night. Despite the weight that appears to be sinking into your body, pulling your eyeline to the ground, dragging at your feet.

It's killing Toji, whatever is wrong with you, and it takes him a while to think that you could possibly dealing with something deeper that he can not understand. Some underlying darkness, a depression, perhaps, that has snuck back into your life now that you have settled into a new routine, a new happiness.

He never believed in the kind of stuff before. Not even when he was experiencing it himself after his wife's death. When his life veered off track and he no longer knew who he was. When killing became the only thing he felt he could do right in this world.

He didn't even realize that was what depression felt like until, of course, you. Until you opened his eyes to how bad his life had been when you miraculously made it better.

He decides that depression is certainly the problem when he comes home more often to you already laying in bed or staring off into space, in some far off world in your mind, separate from reality. The only two questions that remain are what triggered such an abrupt episode, if anything, and how could he help you out of it?

Or... more so... could he help you?

Toji worries in silent, active ways. He asks more questions, though casually, subtly, and sporadically. He'll ask more details about your day when he gets home from work, he'll suggest grabbing take out if he notices the food in the fridge still untouched by you. He'll grip you tighter in his sleep, waiting to doze just to see how long you'll stay awake as you pretend to be asleep with your back pressed to his chest and his fingers tracing light circles in your abdomen.

You notice the mindless habit as something new, and begin to wonder if he's catching onto you.

His embraces are longer in the mornings, when he prepares to leave for a job. His hands linger on your skin as he makes his way to the door, his eyes catching you a number of times before the door closes and separates you, and you are left alone once more with your thoughts.

His kisses are softer, more tender, more cautious.

You can feel him growing wearier, more hesitant. And while this is due to Toji's uncertainty with how to approach you or make sure you're okay without further upsetting you, you only take his behavior as a further sign of his rejection of you. Of his true feelings finally showing.

It's yet another sleepless night at Toji's.

Despite your daily struggle to stomach being in this home, surrounded by so many memories of a woman you never met, you can't find the strength to go anywhere else. This is your home now, after all. You're a part of the family, of the house, of the life that should be hers, not yours. Though you want to leave with all your heart, she's keeping you here, the impossible standard, the first choice. You almost tell yourself that you deserve this feeling, that you would be a coward to run away from such harsh reality.

You have a blanket from the couch wrapped snug around your body, cocooning you as you shrug a lukewarm cup of coffee to your lips. The house is still, everyone but you asleep, and it took a significant amount of shuffling to manage to rise from the bed without waking your boyfriend. Though he's a deep sleeper, the second he feels you moving to even go to the bathroom, he's awake.

Hell, you're surprised you managed to get away this time. Maybe that's another sign of Toji's growing disconnect from you.

Your eyes sting when you blink. Your skin is cold despite the warmth that captures you, and your mind does not rest, so you give into the insomnia and trek across the floors that she once padded over with barefeet, wondering if yours are the same size, if you could somehow begin to fill those prints.

You feel as though you've internally begun to break up with Toji without trying. It feels like you're in a constant state of mourning, as though the man you love is not still right there before you - yours.

But how could he really be yours when he belongs to someone else?

You're so caught up in your thoughts that you do not feel Toji's presence at the corner. He does not make himself known, as his remarkable skills of stealth are put to use as to keep himself hidden from you until he decides to step into the light.

The dark haired man is quiet as he watches you, your back to him and your shoulders tense. When he surveys you more carefully, closer, he notices the tremble in your hands that sends tremors throughout the liquid in your mug.

Toji's eyes are half open, his hair is ruffled to hell, and his pants hang low on his hips as he stares at you. He woke the moment you moved out of bed, but waited to follow you to reduce suspicion. He wanted to know where you were running off to without alarming you further into isolation.

And now that he sees that you are just standing in his kitchen alone and motionless, he feels his chest tighten with something he can not name. He looks at you like you're a mirror, a reflection of his past self, and the notion only spirals him into further concern.

Toji always swears to protect you, to keep you and his kids safe from physical harm. It was the physical that took his first love away, and Toji refuses to let that happen again. Not with you. Not with the woman he intends to spend the rest of his life with.

He fears now, however, that he can not protect you from the mental dangers. The traumas, the internal voids, the voices in your head that ring without stop like an out of tune church bell.

The corners of Toji's lips tug downward and the side of his head knocks agains the wall. Why are you so unhappy? Is it him? Is he making you unhappy? Is he turning your relationship sour? How? Why? What can he do? Why does he feel so useless?

As if on its own, as if drawn to you, urged by a need to fix whatever is wrong, his body pushes himself away from the wall and inches forward mutely. He steps slowly into the space, closer to you. His brows are tugged together and there is a slight curl on his lips, one you mistake for disgust when you catch his shadow creeping up from out of the corner of your eye.

You startle, hastily setting your cup of coffee down on the counter as your eyes nervously catch the ivy hues that gaze down at you through the dimness. You turn to face him fully, leaning your hip against the counter as you instinctively pull your lips together in a halfhearted, tight line Toji thinks you'd call a smile.

"Toji," you say his name like you don't expect him to find you in his own home, like you're surprised that he would ever come after you. Which makes no sense to the assassin, who would jump from moving cars to get to you. "Hey, I'm sorry. I was trying to be quiet."

And you're apologizing. Again. Like your existence is a nuissance. Like you can't bear for your own boyfriend to perceive you in this light, or in any light for that matter.

It's tearing the man apart.

In a sleepy daze, Toji reachs a calloused hand out to your face once he settles a few feet before you. He's experimenting, testing the space and how much you allow between the two of you before you shrink away.

You hold Toji's gaze as his fingers graze your cheek, but it feels like you're staring through him rather than at him. Your eyes are empty. Cold. Exhausted.

The ivy eyed man tilts his head as he observes you quietly, sternly, and that's when you shift in the slightest. You switch weight on either foot, and your chin twitches down within a fraction of a second as his hand melts over your cheek and his gaze intensifies.

You feel him trying to pick you apart. What is it he's looking at? The flaws in your face? How strikingly different you are from his ex wife? Is he noticing up close now? How you'll never compare?

You expect some kind of insult to tumble from his lips every time he looks at you in such away. But you have become blind to the gentleness in his eyes when your vision greets him, soft and sweet. You no longer see the depths of love under layers of hardness, and the worry that so evidently swirls in his sharp irises that he attempts to stabilize with a blank expression.

You don't see anything but your own inadecuacy anymore.

So when his gravelly voice rasps out the obvious question: "Couldn't sleep?" you are even more confused, immediately searching for the hiding meaning in such an ordinary ask.

You take a moment to respond, like you've forgotten how to hold a conversation. You glance at the oven light and see that the time reads 3:32 am. Toji hates being up so late, especially when he has a big job in the morning.

Here you go, causing him even more problems. You're such a burden. You're sure his wife never would have posed him such inconvenience.

"Huh?"

You realize you've waited too long to say anything. You snap your eyes back to his like a deer in headlights and nod slowly. "Was just thirsty," you say.

He quirks a brow, eyes dragging down to your mug. "For the one thing that'll keep you up all night?"

You tug your blanket closer around your arms. "I just... didn't think I would be going to bed any time soon."

Something shifts in Toji's eyes as his hand falls from your face. He steps closer to you, watching your eyes dart between his feet and his face momentarily. Jesus, it's like you're afraid of him or something. You never have been before. So what's the problem now?

"Not going back to bed," he repeats your words, linking his pink finger around the mug handle and sliding it toward him. "Well, darlin', we both got work and the kids got school in a couple hours. I don't think y're getting away with another night of no sleep."

Toji abandons the cup to open his arms to you, bringing one arm around your shoulder to gently guide you to him. He feels your shoulder tense as you step into motion like a zombie, and he looks down at you out of the corner of his eye.

You don't look at him. You just stare.

The embony haired assassin stops, the two of you in the hall leading toward your shared bedroom. You blink in confusion and look up at your boyfriend as he steps out of your way, gesturing his arm forward for you to walk back in before him. You turn to look longingly back at the kitchen before trudging back into your room wordlessly, clinging tight to that blanket as Toji shuts the door behind you.

"(Y/n)," he calls your name, and you freeze in your tracks. Your nerves shock, your heart skips a beat, and you slowly turn over your shoulder, anxious, timid. God, it's so unlike you.

Toji leans against the door with a heavy exhale, watching you with that sharpness only a man trained to murder could withhold. He crosses his arms, frowning.

"You gonna tell me what's been goin' on with you or am I gonna have to get it out of you myself?"

You pale at the steadiness of his voice, the words that followed, and that dead serious look in your eye. You always imagined this moment, but could never prepare for it properly. Truthfully, you had no idea what to say. You're embarrassed. Vulnerable. Scared. Sad.

The very thought of even trying to tell him what's going on inside your mind chokes you up, for what the hell would he even say to you obsessing over his dead wife? What if he drops his facade of loving you and admits the truth? What if he sneers down at you, shaming you for all that you can not be for him and his kids? What if he leaves you?

You're paralyzed with horror, so uncertain of everything. Toji notices the way your body stiffens like some kind of defense mechanism, and it dawns on him that you are possibly shifting into fight or flight mode.

...How could he have let things get so bad?

He tilts his head, softening his voice into a mumble. "Doll?" your delicate nickname flutters from his tongue into the emptiness of your bedroom, and your heart aches. The nickname addresses you, but you hear its distant ring, its call to its rightful owner, its past life - sweet on someone else's ears before you.

His frown deepens as you shrink further into yourself without any words, but with just a particular look in your eye that makes Toji's bones ache.

He kicks himself up from the door and moves toward you. You take an involuntary step back, and he halts. As if burned.

You see that his face contort when he notices, and you curse yourself. He looks like you just threw fire at him.

"S-Sorry."

"Are you scared of me?"

The question settles into the air, raw with passion, a hiss, a torn whisper, and you hear your heart break. The spell around you shatters for a moment as Toji looks at you so perplexed, wounded in a way that he would only show you, plain in a veil of frustration.

You're shocked by it.

"What?"

"Don't act confused, like you haven't been jumping away any time I'm near you lately." The space between the two of you is thick in the air. You feel so far away, despite being closed within the same space. "Is it me? You don't like how I make you feel? Is that it?"

You know Toji so well. Even as his tone echoes monotonously and somewhat condescending, you can hear the underlying pain in those sentences.

"Are ya quiet because that's it? I'm right?"

"No," you finally say hastily. You see Toji's shoulders relax a bit, though his guard has gone up slightly from the sentiment. You can't believe that he would ever think something like that, that you could actually ever be scared of him. "Of course not, Toji. I could never be afraid of you. Do you hear what you're asking?"

And Toji hears the first semblances of passion in your voice after months of colorlessness, and despite the weight of the conversation topic, hope strikes - gentle and refrained.

"Hell, girl, you're not giving me much else to think," he admits. "It feels like you've been hating me lately."

"Why would I hate you, Toji?"

"You tell me. Y're pullin' away when I kiss you, you're flinching around me like I'm gonna break you, we haven't had sex in weeks -"

"I haven't been feeling well," you interject, not wanting to hear more about how you've been subconsciously treating him.

Toji presses his lips together, scar creasing. "I know. That's why I'm asking now what's wrong with you."

"...Because you want to have sex?"

"The fuck (Y/n)? No. 'Cause I care about you and I wanna get to the bottom of whatever this is." He squints his eyes at you as you reel back slightly.

"Oh," is all you say.

"See, it's shit like that," he murmurs. "I must've done something to make you act this way around me."

You sigh heavily. "No, Toji, you didn't. Really."

"But it's something."

"I..." that image of Megumi's mother on his window sill flashes through your head and you twitch. "It's not you."

You get a far off look in your eye before turning your gaze away. "Then what is it, doll? Huh? You sad? Did something happen?"

"I dunno, Toji. It's nothing," you exhale, turning around to face your bed. You stare at the tussled sheets as your lips tug downward, heart heavy, and a lump forming in your throat. "Let's just go back to sleep."

"You're not going to sleep. You'll be up for hours."

"No I won't."

Toji moves over to you as you start to climb back onto the bed. "What are you lying for?"

"I'm not lying," your voice drops as you clamber up, crossing your legs to sit on the edge of the comforter as Toji stands directly before you, looming over, staring down.

"You take me for some kind of idiot?" he scoffs. "I know you."

"I'm fine, Toji. Really. I - I'm just tired. Can we please," you nod toward his side of the bed, and his eyes catch the empty space for a moment but inevitably land back on you, much to your chagrin.

The assassin falls silent again, letting the emptiness take over you as tension builds. You're beginning to panic.

"(Y/n), when's the last time you got a full night's sleep?" he eventually asks.

He knows the answer already. You're sure of it. Or else, he wouldn't have been asking.

You swallow hard as you look at him with slightly widened eyes. "Um... a couple days ago," you elect to say.

"You're lyin' again."

You frown. "Well then why would you ask me if you already knew the answer?" you snap, tone taking an abrupt iciness.

Toji squints his eyes at you. "Now you wanna give me attitude after months of not tellin' me the truth?"

"I'm not giving you attitude, Toji, for fuck's sake."

"Then what do you call that, huh? I can barely get a word out of you for weeks and now you're cussin at me. You can't tell me I didn't do somethin' wrong if this is how y're talkin' to me."

"I'm telling you it's nothing," you turn away with steely eyes. "Can't you just drop it?"

"You're askin' the impossible of me, girl," he exhales tiredly, dropping down to a knee before you to better meet your eyes. You see the motion out of the corner of your eye, but force yourself to continue looking away. "I can't drop shit that has to do with you."

You sour.

Those words once so sweet to you now only sound like a recycled promise.

You click your tongue and roll your eyes, looking down at your hands as you pick at your nails. "Yeah, right," you utter low under your breath.

"Excuse me?"

You shrink again. "Nothing."

"Uh uh," he reaches up to grab your chin and turn you toward him. Your jaw is set hard as your eyes snap back to his face reluctantly. You find that he is growing agitated with you, as his gaze is harder than before. "Run that by me again. You think I don't care about you?"

"Toji, please," you push his hand away. "We have work in the morning. Let's just-"

"I'm not gettin' back in that bed until you tell me what's wrong," he rests his elbow beside your leg and leans. "You know I'm dead serious. I don't care if it takes all night."

You find that there is no escaping. No lying. You knew there wouldn't be, anyway. This is Toji Fushiguro after all, stubborn as a bull, so much so that he took his ex's last fucking name.

Your heart pangs.

"So?" he pushes, lifting his brows. He nudges your knee. "Spit it out. You wanna break up?"

"Why would you ask that?" you scrunch your nose. "...Do you wanna break up?"

"The hell I do, (Y/n). I'm askin' you."

"But why?"

"Cause you're acting so fucking weird, baby," he emphasizes, eyes earnest and wounded. "You don't wanna split, then?"

"...No, Toji..." you deflate. "But if that's... I don't know, if that's what you want..."

"Don't turn this onto me. I'm not the one acting like your poison any time you touch me."

"I don't-"

"You do," he interjects. "If you don't wanna leave me, then what?"

You struggle to find the words, eyes falling to your lap. "I can't tell you."

"Why? You cheating on me?"

"No!"

"Did someone die?"

"No."

"Are you pregnant?"

"No," You shake your head again.

Toji ducks his head in defeat, finding himself running in circles. "Christ, are you gonna give me a hint?"

"I can't tell you."

"That doesn't make any sense. You're the one always tellin' me I can talk to you about anything. Now the roles are reversed and you wanna shut down. Like I'd ever let you pull away like that. Are you sick? Is your brain scrambled? Is that why you're thinking stupid shit like that?"

You shift, tugging your blanket tighter. "Why are you being so mean?"

"I'm not, (Y/n). I'm lost," he breathes. "And I'm losing it. You're freaking me out."

"Then maybe you should leave me be if I'm causing you so much trouble."

You stand and brush past him, opening the bedroom door to leave suddenly. You're in the darkness of the living space, rounding the corner back to the kitchen, but Toji is hot on your heels.

"I don't wanna fight with you on this," he growls.

"Then don't. I'm not fighting," you shrug.

You reach the kitchen again and lean over to grab your forgotten mug, but Toji cuts off your point of contact, stepping between you and sliding the drink further away. You glare up at him.

"Y're taking out all your shit on me," he observes. "You think I don't want you?"

"Oh my god," you grumble. You go to storm past him, but he is quick to grab your blanketed arm, stopping you in your tracks. You turn over your shoulder to eye him, your gaze coming off much nastier than it should, simply because you're hurting. And Toji is cracking away at your shell to get to the ugly truth.

"Don't walk away from me," he says. "I'm talkin' to you."

"Let me go."

And he does, but very slowly. He regrets it the moment you slip away again, disappearing into the bedroom. He follows you as you toss your blanket onto the bed, as you rifle through your closet for sweats and a jacket, as you leave to shove shoes on, and as you open the front door to step outside.

The air is cold and your breath hits the atmosphere in a visible fog. You hiss through your teeth as you step onto the steps and look around the neighborhood. You didn't grab your keys. You figured you'd just walk.

"(Y/n), get back inside," Toji shouts, shutting the door behind him to continue following you. You don't answer him. You just walk, and you hate how you know that he is behind you. You hate how his voice calls you, how it does not relent. You hate this reminder that he really does love you, and it's all because of her.

Because he sees her and not you.

It takes one last call of your name to make you stop and whip your head around. Your lips are pressed firmly together as tears well in your eyes like sprinkles of starlight. Your forehead is creased with something akin to devastation and your shoulders are so tense.

Toji immediately slows to a stop before you, and when he sees your tears, his harshness is crumbling. "Baby..." he starts.

"Just go!" you shout at him in the middle of the pathway. "Go, leave me alone! I can't be what you want me to be! I can't -" you shiver and choke over your own words. You heave in a breath, looking all around you through blurry eyes in a poor attempt to gather whatever pieces of dignity you have left.

You can't escape this feeling. It drags down on you, clings to you, and poisons you every single time you look at your boyfriend.

You sniff hard, scrunching your eyes tight. Lines of tears slide down your cheeks from your lashes as you huff, a confession bubbling in your chest that you can no longer keep away.

"- I can't be her," you blubber, knuckling away at your eyes. "I'm sorry. I can't. I'm just not. So please, please just... just let me go. It'll be better for us."

Toji knows exactly who you are talking about from the way you emphasize that pronoun. He finds himself stilling with shock, face falling, clouds of his breath floating into the night. Your sniffles and hiccuped breaths are the only audible noise out in the darkness, and Toji finds himself floored by the mention of his ex wife from the woman he intends to marry.

"I'm sorry," you manage again, hands palming at your damp skin. "I-I'm sorry. I just - I know how much she means to you, and I know it sucks not being with her and settling for me. And I t-think that if she hadn't - we would've never - " you can't finish your sentence.

"Woah," Toji starts, stepping close to you as you wipe your tears away and stifle your cries. "Alright, hold on," he murmurs low, gentle. He cradles your wrists softly, leading you to jump, and the pieces finally connect in Toji's head. He finally is starting to understand the issue.

Toji lowers your hands from your face, revealing your flushed, tear stained skin to him as your lips tremble. He brushes way excess tears for you, tucking pieces of hair into place thoughtfully.

"What's all this you're talkin' about my dead ex wife, doll?" he asks slowly, confused and slightly aggrieved by the topic. "Sayin' I settled for you? Are you kiddin? Don't tell me she's what's had you so depressed."

You hear the way he mentions her so breezily. He was never able to do that before, back when you first met him.

"Don't play dumb, Toji. Please," you whimper.

"I'm not playin' dumb, (Y/n). Maybe I am just plain dumb 'cause I don't understand," he says delicately. "Come back inside so we can talk about this."

You shake your head. "I can't go back in there."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's not my house, Toji. You know it's not. It's hers."

"Stop it," he says sternly. "Stop that shit. I don't like it."

"But it's true."

"It's your house."

"It was hers before it was mine. And it never would have been mine if-"

"Are you crazy?" he stops you. "Talkin' about her death like that. Have you lost your mind?"

You feel your heart crumble inside. You've hit a nerve. You know you have. That's why you didn't want to tell him. That's why you're better off just leaving him be. "I'm sorry," you say swiftly, and turn to go, but Toji is not having it. He secures your shoulders and keeps you in place.

"Stop trying to run away from me, girl. You're not going anywhere. Come back inside."

"Toji, you have to let me go."

"Not in a million years."

"I'm not her, Toji."

"You don't think I know that?" he furrows his brows. "Of course you're not her, (Y/n). I never expected you to be. I never asked you to be. Why are you stressin' over her all of a sudden?"

"It's not all of a sudden..." you trail off.

"...Okay." This is an inkling of progress. He'll take what he can get. "How long, then?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Yes," he says. "You been thinkin' like that since we met?"

"...No."

"Then for how long? Come on, (Y/n). I'm not gonna pry this shit from you all night. It's me," he whispers. Your brows curl with familiarity, with that ache of love. "Talk to me, baby. I'm askin' you."

You inhale sharply as another tear rolls down your face. Toji is quick to catch it on his thumb and swipe it away.

"How long?" he asks again.

You exhale. "I dunno... the last four or five months."

"And you've just been thinking all this shit in silence? By yourself?" You shrug. "Darlin', you're depressed. Look how you worked yourself up."

"Yeah. I know," you murmur.

"You always been like this?"

You shrug again with a wince. "Kinda."

"And this wife shit just set you off, then. Is that right?"

"...Yeah."

"Why?" he tilts his head. "What'd I do to make you start thinking about her so much?"

"I told you, it's not something you did," you sniff. You fall quiet and when you look at Toji, you see him waiting, expecting, as he is not going to continue to spoon feed you your own answers when you can speak yourself. He wants you to express yourself instead of keeping all of this in.

But it's hard. It's hard to give voice and power to what has only existed within your mind.

So you struggle for a bit, struggle to find the words, but Toji waits and hangs on to every silent second you think.

"I don't care how that shit sounds when you say it," he says suddenly. "I just want you to say it. Don't think about how it'll come off. Talk."

So you do.

"It's not something you did," you say again, quietly, timidly. "...It's just something I became aware of after I moved in... I know it's rude to shove myself into your family's grief, and I'm really sorry. I beat myself up for it every day, but... I don't know, somewhere along the line, I just started seeing her in everything," you confess. "And if I was seeing her, then I can only imagine what you and Megumi see... and I just thought that... you know, with how long it took you to open up to me... that you... started pretending or hoping I was her instead. Then I started obsessing even more."

Your confession settles hard into reality, and once the words have left you, you cringe. It's out in the open now. For Toji to scorn, to reject, to accept, to confirm.

Toji can practically feel the way your hear hammers by the pace of your pulse in your neck, and he deflates.

He thinks back to the death of his wife that still looms over his home every day, in every waking moment. He thinks of how the world drained of color, how his heart split in two, and how the blood of targets served in place of her warmth, as it was the only warm thing he could feel at the time.

He thinks of how he neglected his kids, how Tsumiki was left to care for Megumi during every last minute trip, every prolonged job, every bender, every fling. He thinks of how he couldn't even look Megumi in the eye without seeing what he lost, without being torn apart by the grief.

He thinks of how shitty he was when you met him. How many years of friendship it took for him to melt, to heal, to genuinely move on.

He thinks of the first time your laugh made his heart burst, as it was the first time he had felt such a thing in what felt like eons. He thinks of the first time he held your hand, how snug your soft skin felt against his palm. He thinks of your first kiss, and the guilt that wracked him when he knew that he was falling for you. That he was actually, truly, living again. Without her.

Toji frowns because he understands why you would think such a way. He really does. He spent the majoirity of the beginning of your relationship pushing and pulling, battling with the internal conflict, with the dilemma of honoring his ex wife while moving forward. He was so much different back then, so wishy washy, so torn. He hates how his grief could have made you think that his love for you isn't real, that it's only a placeholder, when you are everything.

Yes, his ex is dead. Yes, it turned his world upside down, but you are here with him and that's all he can ask for. You helped him, you saved him and his family, you loved him when he thought that love had died, you brought back color to a lifeless canvas.

You're his. And though he would never wish what he went through on his worst enemy, he can not imagine a world without you in it.

It's strange... that he had to lose someone in order to gain you.

With a heavy sigh, Toji smooths his hand to the back of your head and cradles it tenderly. His ivy hues regard you with love and understanding, face flat, eyes alight. He takes in your tears, your anguish, and he promises to suffer for it. To atone for what he's done to you without even trying.

He gets it. He does. For if the roles were reversed, hell, he'd feel the same way.

"Come inside, baby," he tells you gently. "I don't wanna have this talk with you out in the cold."

You tremble with fear, with looming heartbreak. "...Am I right for thinking that way?"

"No," he responds so easily, like he doesn't have to think about it. "But I - hell, I don't know. I should've known you'd feel some type of way about her eventually."

"Do you... still think about her?"

Toji purses his lips. "Yeah," he answers honestly. "Every day. But not in the way you're thinkin'."

Your stare up at him with such emotion, so fragile that you may break down at any moment as his other hand rests on your cheek.

"Losin' someone like that... shit, it sticks with you. It does. I won't lie to you about that. And you know it. You saw how I was, and... I guess... I'm sorry you had to deal with all that so early on."

"You don't have to apologize for mourning her, Toji. I'm saying I know-"

"You don't. Not really, or else we wouldn't be havin' this conversation," he says, and you clamp your mouth shut and let him go on. "My grief shoulda never made you feel like I wanted you to be her. She's the mother of my kid, (Y/n). We were married and she died. She ain't just gonna go away, but I've grieved her long enough to know that I love you. How I feel about you doesn't have anything to do with her. It's about you and me. And I wouldn't ever disrespect either of you by tryin' to turn you into someone who ain't even here. Hell, if I was lookin at you to be her, we wouldn't be together. You get what I'm saying?"

You nod solemnly, slowly. "I do."

"Do ya?" he cranes his head forward. "I love you. You hear me? I love you so much it fuckin' hurts. If I lost ya, I'd lose my mind. You get that right?" you nod again, but Toji isn't convinced. "Nah, I wanna hear you say it."

"Toji-"

"Come on. Say it."

Your nose flares as you melt. "You love me," you give in.

"So much it hurts."

"...So much it hurts," you finish shakily. "I love you too. I love you so much. I just don't want you to be unhappy. I know losing her really hurt you and I don't know what I'd do with myself if you were still just suffering."

"Grief ain't a straight line, doll. You know this. That doesn't mean a thing about how I feel about you."

You pause. "...Toji?"

"Yeah," he answers mindlessly as he looks over your face.

"Are you still in love with her?"

Toji stills. "(Y/n)," he starts. "She's dead. The love I have for her is somewhere floating around. It's different. It's the past. You're my present, and I love you."

"But if she were still here..."

"I don't wanna think about if she was still here. That ain't the life I'm living right now. I wouldn't have you, and it just - gets too fuckin' weird and complicated to even think about. So quit it. Y're shitting all over the good we have now, and even she wouldn't go for that."

You can't even be mad at his responses, for they're so Toji, so unapologetically full of truth that you remember he would never hide from you. This is your boyfriend, the man who completely changed to be with you. The man who swears to love you, to protect you, to hold you close until the day he dies. The man who promises you as a new parent for his kids, who welcome you with open arms - not despite the past, but because of it.

And the woman who gave Toji his last name still lingers, but in that spiritual, guarding way. She sheds the house in light, now able to rest knowing that you are there to look after everyone.

You've been a fool, acting like this, reliving grievances that the family has long come to terms with. Now that you've expressed yourself, now that the thoughts have left your lips, you can see that love swirling once more in Toji's eyes. You don't know how you had chosen not to see it for so long.

The feelings, however, won't just go away, even with this assurance.

You huff with an incoming cry and bury your face in your hands, overwhelmed, vulnerable, overstimulated.

Toji does not have to think before gathering you up in his arms, wrapping you tight, settling his chin atop your head and staring forward as you cry into his chest, humiliated, relieved, overcome by it all.

He presses his lips firm to your head with a promise. "It's you and only you," he mutters as you tremble.

And hopefully it's enough, enough for you to believe, to carry with you as truth and nothing less. For that's all Toji has for you. Truth, love, and his very life.

He's lost someone before. He won't let it happen again.

Not with you. Not ever.

"Come back inside, doll."

You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.

There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.

The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.

No.

You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.

You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.

But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.

What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.

You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.

You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.

God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?

What are you even thinking right now?

It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.

Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.

You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.

You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.

So, he finds this funny, huh.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.

“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.

“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.

He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.

“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?

“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”

“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.

You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.

“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.

“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”

Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.

“And what would that be?”

If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.

He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.

He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.

“Seriously?”

“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”

“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.

“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.

“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.

“You worried, sweetheart?”

“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”

He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.

“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”

“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”

You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.

“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.

You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?

He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.

Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.

He does have big hands, though.

“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”

There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.

He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.

“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.

He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.

And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.

+++

“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”

“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”

“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.

You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.

Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.

Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.

“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.

“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”

You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.

God, what are you doing?

“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”

“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”

You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.

Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.

She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?

“Marjorie, what is that?”

“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”

You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.

“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.

“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”

As if she’s the one restocking.

She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.

You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.

You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.

This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.

To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.

Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.

He already saw you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”

The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.

This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.

Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.

You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.

Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.

“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”

“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.

He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.

You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.

No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.

He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.

“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”

Who even says that?

You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.

“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”

By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.

For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”

“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.

It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.

“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”

Two can play that game.

“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.

God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.

“So you have noticed.”

‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”

“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”

Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."

Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.

“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”

“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.

You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.

He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.

You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.

“What’s this say?”

“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”

You look up. “What?”

“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.

“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”

“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”

Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.

Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.

The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.

“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.

“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.

You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”

“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.

His hands are shaking.

Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.

He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.

“That everything?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.

“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.

He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.

You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.

“Sir? Your change.”

He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”

Then he walks to the door.

Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.

He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.

A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—

He turns around.

The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.

He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.

The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.

“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.

A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.

Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”

Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.

The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.

“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”

He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”

“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”

He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.

“I said call her.”

Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.

And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.

Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.

One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.

You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.

“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”

You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.

“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.

The lighter.

The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.

Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.

“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”

Hood goes very still.

“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”

“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”

You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.

The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.

And, you’re in it.

You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.

Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.

— Marj.

You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.

Fuck.

You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.

You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—

The window.

There’s something at the window.

A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.

You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.

You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.

He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.

Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?

“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”

His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”

Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.

“I know,” he says.

“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”

He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.

“You what?”

“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.

You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.

“I’m not dead,” you say.

“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”

“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.

He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.

The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.

“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.

“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeats.

“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”

He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.

The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).

steve remembered it like it was yesterday. it was a nightmare he couldn't shake. one that haunted him every single day for the past year. he could never get the image of you, laying in his arms and bleeding out, out of his head. there was red spilling from your mouth and practically every other part of your body. it soaked your clothes and even parts of his pants.

the bat's had really done a number on you. he remembers sobbing hard enough that his entire body was in pain for days after. he didn't even care about the wounds he'd endured when he first came through. you'd patched him up enough to keep him moving for a little longer. long enough to get you out of there.

he remembers the way nancy and robin, your best friends, cried at the sight. how the wheeler had put her hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to stand so they could at least try getting you out of there. eddie wasn't looking too good either. most of his weight was being rested on dustin. any longer and you two probably wouldn't make it.

he remembers gently getting you through the gate. robin, nancy, eddie, and dustin all carefully guided you through from the other side instead of you hitting the mattress like the rest of them did. the small thud could probably kill you with the state you were in.

he remembers carrying you bridal style through the hospital. you were completely limp in his arms and your breathing was starting to slow. his vision was starting to fog up again at the thought of losing you right now. of being just a minute too late to getting you help.

he remembers robin being by his side the whole time with a permanent frown etched into her face. nancy and dustin had to stay back to care for eddie. bringing him to the hospital would've resulted in an immediate arrest of the boy.

he remembers seeing you in the operating room through the window with a mask on your face to help you breathe and doctors crowding your body. he had to lie to them and say this was a result of the building collapsing with the three of you inside when hawkins split in two.

he remembers the nurses checking him and robin out too. she had a concussion and he needed a few stitches. he didn't even flinch. he was too worried about you and whether you were gonna make it. they'd told him you had a collapsed lung and would need an excessive amount of stitches.

he remembers his heart dropping when they said you'd need a blood transfusion because of how much you lost. they'd said he wasn't a fit donor either because he'd lost too much too. robin stepped up immediately and he began to thank the lord that they'd somehow all had the same blood type.

he remembers sitting with robin while vickie pricked her with a needle. they weren't allowing visitors in your room yet until they were sure you were stable and could breathe somewhat on your own. he listened to her yap away to the ginger to distract herself from the queazy feeling of watching the blood flow through the tube into the bag.

he remembers coming back the next day the second the visitor hours started. his clothes were fresh, he'd showered, and the painkillers he was given had made him feel a million times better. he'd even stopped by dustin's house on the way to visit eddie. the boy didn't look great, but he was still alive.

he remembers walking into the room with robin trailing close behind. you had a tube down your nose feeding you air and thick white bandages all over your exposed arms. your face was pale and the skin around your eyes was a dark mauve color.

he remembers you looking up at him with a sleepy smile like you hadn't almost died the day before. you didn't say anything, it would've hurt to bad. he mumbled out a soft, "hi, honey," and sat down in the chair next to you, gingerly grabbing your hand with the fear of hurting you. you gave him three weak squeezes. i love you.

steve hates thinking about it. he hates thinking about how he could've lost you forever. how he might not have been able to bring you home to the kids who loved you so much and your sister, max. except she was in a coma with no signs of recovering any time soon. the news broke you.

and he was there to put you right back together. he'd carried you out of the hospital when they released you and into the home you two shared with robin. the news of your sister weighed heavy on you but with lucas' optimism and steve's reassurance, you slowly started to recover mentally and physically.

it'd taken you four months to be back to whatever you thought was normal. you were able to fully function without the help of your boyfriend and you no longer felt the immense wave of sadness and pain when you went to visit max. instead you were hopeful.

steve had started to notice a few things as time went on. when summer hit, one of hawkins hottest, you refused to wear shorts, t-shirts, skirts, dresses, tank-tops, anything that showed skin. whenever everyone went to the beach, you always had an excuse to not join.

the in-ground pool in your backyard hadn't seen you at all that season. the kids all came over and swam in it for hours. steve, nancy, jonathan, and robin joined in a few times. you never did. you'd come out a say hi a few times if they were lucky, but never in a swimsuit, only long pajamas.

you'd gotten more quiet over time. it was harder to hold a conversation with you and it was rare that you spoke without someone acknowledging you first. you were just sort of there.

steve noticed everything. he noticed how you'd cower away from his touch in bed, how you never really wanted to cuddle anymore, the way you didn't randomly come up and hug him anymore. the two of you used to be intimate at least twice a week, three times if you two weren't fighting inter dimensional monsters. now it was zero times a week.

he wasn't complaining. he would never. that boy loved you with every fiber in his body and would never hold that against you. there was a long period at the start of your relationship where you two never had sex. it was because you were a virgin and the thought of losing it terrified you. it was only after about four months that you finally shared that special moment. if he could do it then, he surely could do it now.

you had almost died. he knew you needed time to recover. but what really started to concern him, was when you started to hide yourself from him. it was like you were trying to make yourself small in every room, every situation. you took up as little space as possible, spoke as little as possible, and tried to stay out of everyones way.

you no longer openly changed in the room. you went to the bathroom. you didn't offer to join him in the shower anymore. you only showered alone. you didn't sprawl out on the couch when your friends came over anymore. you sat neat and tense on one side. you didn't throw your legs across steve's lap anymore. you sat against the backrest and let your feet dangle just above the floor.

you were different in every sense. he'd tried to talk to you at first but you always shut the conversation down. it happened four times. he soon decided it was best to stop trying. he was absolutely terrified of pushing you away.

that led you all here, in the wsqk station. steve had his headphones on one ear by the soundtrack, watching robin finish up her set. he'd spare a glance or two in your direction every couple of minutes through the big windows. you were in the small common area on the couch with your legs folded under you and a coloring book he'd gifted to you in your lap. something about it made you feel a little less stressed.

once he heard the familiar click to signal robin was off the air and was completely done, he tore the headphones off his head. "have you noticed how she's been acting lately?"

the girl looked at him, then you, then back to him. "like she almost died?" she asked with a quirked brow. "i have noticed a tad bit."

he glared at her. "no, you know that's not what i mean. she's been too quiet. for months now. she barely even comes around. and she's starting to look..."

robin nodded in understanding. "different," she finished for him. you'd lost a concerning amount of weight. "i've started to notice more recently. little things. like— like how she picks around at her food exactly four times before actually taking a bite. never a full one, only half. and how she's starting to pick at her nails when she wants to say something but is too afraid to actually say it."

the boy let out a relieved sigh, knowing that she saw it too. he started to feel like he was crazy for a minute. "i don't know what else to do," he said defeatedly, taking a seat on the stool. thankfully the booth was soundproof. "i don't wanna keep bringing it up because i know it makes her uncomfortable, but she's really starting to scare me, rob. like seriously."

"i know. i'm concerned for her too," she said with a frown. "i think... maybe just, try one more time. tell her how worried we are. not in like a, you need help and we're made at you, type of way. but in a, we love you and we're worried about you, type of way. just make her feel safe enough to open up about everything."

he nodded and crossed his arms over her chest, thinking hard. "can you do it with me? maybe it's help if it comes from the both of us."

she shook her head quickly. "nope. not a good idea," she disagreed almost instantly. "that'll make it feel more like an intervention which is exactly what we're trying to avoid. you're her boyfriend, steve. it'll mean more coming from you. just be gentle, okay? i believe in you," she said as she stood and gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. "now, i'm gonna go wait in the beamer. oh!— and can you drop me off at vickie's maybe?"

he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. considering the door to the booth was now open, he heard the front door bell ding softly. robin was now out of the building. another minute of still silence passed. he took a deep breath and stood, walking out and over to where you were sat. "hey, honey," he whispered softly, kneeling down on the ground in front of you so you were eye-level.

you gave him a timid smile and looked back down at your coloring book and the crayon in your hand. the sound of your heartbeat racing was thumping in your ears. one of his hands found your knee, while the other rested on top of yours to stop your movements. he could see you flinch at the contact. "can we talk?"

your heart dropped into your stomach. he saw something flicker across your eyes. worry, maybe? you blinked it away. "talk about what?"

his thumb gently stroked over your jean-clad knee. "us," he said, his eyes scanning yours. he could see tears begin to well up.

your whole body tensed. you knew was what coming. you could feel it. a thick lump formed quickly in your throat. "what about us?"

a wave of sadness washed over his face. "what's going on, sweetheart? i feel like we never talk anymore. it's like you're here physically, but, you're like— like a ghost."

your nose twitched slightly, indicating you were really about to cry. "i'm sorry, steve," you sobbed, hunching over and covering your face with your hands. "i'm so sorry. i know i— i haven't been the best girlfriend but please, please don't break up with me."

his heart shattered at your words as his brows furrowed. he was taken back by the unexpected statement. "whoa— what? baby, who said anything about breaking up?" his hands gently took yours and placed them in your lap, holding them carefully as to not overwhelm you. "i don't wanna breakup."

you inhaled a shaky breath and finally looked up at him. "you dont?" you asked sheepishly. "i just— i know i've been really sucky lately but i can't lose you, stevie. i can't."

you leaned forward without thinking and wrapped your arms around his neck, tucking your face into the space there. he rocked back slightly at the sudden impact but quickly returned the embrace. his eyes fell shut as he savored this moment. the two of you hadn't hugged in months. "i've got you. i'm right here, honey."

he let you cry into the crook of his neck from as long as you needed, sobs wracking your body against him. it felt so good to finally let all of this out. it had been building up for so long. "please don't leave me," you muttered brokenly into his shirt.

one of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head and hold you even closer. "i'm not going anywhere. i promise. i'm right here."

after another minute or two, you finally pulled away. it was like you could see his heartbreak all over again at the sight of your red, teary eyes and your puffy lips. "i'm really sorry," you apologized again, not knowing what else to say.

he gave your hands a gentle squeeze. "don't apologize. i'm not mad at you, i just wanna know you're okay," he said softly. "can you tell me what's been going on lately? i wanna be there for you and i wanna work through this. i can't do that if i don't know what's wrong."

a shaky breath left your lips as you nodded. "i just— i don't know. i don't feel like i'm good enough for you anymore. and i know you deserve so much better but i just don't want you to leave me."

"whoa, hold on. what?" he was stunned. "you don't feel good enough for me? no. no, that's not true at all. did i do something to make you feel like that?"

you shook your head timidly and looked down at your hands to avoid his sad stare. "no but... ever since the accident, i— i mean look at me, steve. i'm full of scars and i'm— i look so different now. i'm just not pretty."

his head cocked back the slightest bit, not expecting that at all. "what? how could even think that?" his voice was gentle as he cradled your jaw and lifted it, forcing you to meet his gaze. "i think you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen in my life. inside and out. and i'm so sorry that you've felt like this for so long. and i'm sorry if i made it seem like you couldn't talk to me about how you feel."

the corners of your lips turned downwards as your eyes scanned his glossy ones. "that's not it. i just thought— maybe if i said something, you'd realize i was right and you'd leave."

"no, not at all, honey," he said softly, pulling you into his arms and holding you close. a few stray tears ran down his cheek. he was so happy to have you back in his arms. "i love you more than anything else. you're my entire world, y'know that? i could never just walk away. i just— i miss you. and you've been through so much and you're so strong for handling everything on your own. but i need you to know that you don't have to. i wanna be there for you. through anything and everything."

you began to cry harder into his chest and hold onto him a little tighter. "i'm so sorry for shutting you out. i was just so scared."

he held you closer and pressed a loving kiss to your temple. "i know, it's okay. i forgive you," he whispered quietly, gently running a soothing hand over your back. he let you cry it out for another minute until your breathing starting to slow. "how 'bout we finish this at home? we can get it all out, okay?"

you nodded eagerly and pulled away from him, a sad smile on your lips. "i like that," you mumbled. he flashed you a soft, close-lipped smile before standing and offering you a hand. you took it gratefully and placed your coloring supplies on the coffee table for tomorrow when you came in with them. the two of you made your journey back to the car, finding robin asleep and sprawled out across the back seat.

🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧

somehow, your peaceful night in, turned into a movie night with your friend group. vickie and robin were sharing a couch, nancy and jonathan were comfortably laid out on the floor with a bed of blankets beneath them, eddie was sleeping sideways on the one seater, and you and steve were on the L shaped couch.

your boyfriend was laying with his legs crossed at the ankle and a blanket over your laps. the group was so proud to see how close you two were sitting again. they hadn't seen this in months. the movie was almost over and you were starting to get sleepy.

you gently swung your legs around and onto steve's lap to rest between his thighs before curling into his side, head resting against his chest. almost as if it were instinct, which it probably was, his arm wrapped around your shoulders and pulled you closer. his hand soothingly ran along your arm.

you could hear his heartbeat pick up against your ear. it was the cutest thing. you cuddled deeper into his side and let your eyes drift shut in the safety of his arms.

you weren’t sure how much time had passed or even what time it was right now, but you woke up, it was to steve cautiously carrying you into your shared bedroom. “hey, sleepyhead,” he teased in a whisper as he set you down on the bed.

your eyes adjusted to the light as he walked over to the door and shut it. “what time is it?” you asked sleepily, your voice slightly groggy and hoarse.

he glanced at the clock on his dresser. “11,” he stated, climbing into bed beside you. you’d allowed him to get surprisingly close already. he could see something flickering behind your eyes. “you okay?”

you offered a soft smile and a slight nod. “i’m okay,” you reassured, even though your voice was a little shaky. “just thinking.”

the boy turned on his side to face you a gently brushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “talk to me. what’s on your mind?”

you took a much needed deep breath. “i just missed you,” you admitted quietly, almost afraid to say it out loud for some reason.

his cheeks tinged a pretty shade a pink. “yeah?” he whispered. “i missed you too.” there was a moment of silence between the two of you. he scanned over your face with nothing but pure love in his eyes. “you look so beautiful.”

you let out a breathy laugh like it was some sort of joke and rolled onto your back. he leaned up on his arm so he could look down at you. “hey. i’m serious, baby.” his eyes were half lidded as he stared at you. the boy was so lovesick. it was like he was drunk off of the sight of you alone. “can i show you how gorgeous i think you are?”

you bit your lip nervously but hesitantly nodded. you missed being intimate with steve. only now you had scars all over your body that he’d never seen. it made you nervous.

he slowly climbed on top of you and between your legs, hiking them up to rest by his hips while he leaned over you. “tell me if you want me to stop, okay? whatever you want, i’m here for you,” he encouraged sweetly.

his lips met yours in a delicate kiss, one that made your heart absolutely crumble. your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders and pulled him down closer to you. his tongue ran across the seam of your lips, begging for access. when you granted it, the wet muscle smoothed over your own and softly sucked on it. a quiet whimper left your lips.

a year without feeling his against yours was starting to feel like a crime that you never wanted to commit again. the way that he was kissing you so passionately made your head start to spin. you loved moments like this with him so much.

his hands abandoned your legs and slowly ran up your sides and to your waist, slipping his hands under the hem to rest on the dip. he could feel the slight rise of scars beneath them. he hadn’t seen it yet, but he could tell he was going to love it.

he pulled away from a second to breath, soft pants fanning over your lips. “is it okay if i take this off?” he asked, tugging as the bottom of your shirt.

your body tensed as you let out an unsure breath. you nodded slowly. “yes.”

steve was slow and careful, gingerly peeling your long sleeve off to reveal your simple black bra. his eyes scanned over your torso. it was full of small scars from where the bat’s teeth had bitten into. there were some thick scars from where the stitches pulled the skin together to close the chunks of missing flesh.

you could feel tears brimming in your waterline. until you heard him speak. “you’re breathtaking,” he mumbled softly. he leaned down to press tender, loving kisses to the skin of your stomach like he was worshipping you. “god, you’re so gorgeous, honey.”

he skipped over your bra and to your collarbone, kissing a thicker scar in particular. his lips were so soft and pillowy against the scars, it almost made you forget why you avoided this in the first place.

then up your neck, sucking soft purple marks into the delicate skin there. he thought you looked so beautiful right now.

he planted a few kisses to your jaw, then your lips as his hands ran across the skin of your stomach again. “you’re even more stunning than before, baby. always jus’ look so pretty.” he kissed your lips again and laved over your tongue with his own and pressed his hips to yours. it pulled a whimper from you.

steve was a man of his word if nothing else. he was determined to make you remember how much he loves you. he began to press his lips back down to your neck again, much more slow this time. he kissed over every single scar, cut, mark, anything with a quiet adoration. you could feel it radiating from him. it made you want to cry.

his hands slowly peeled your bottoms off, doing the same to your legs. absolutely worshipping you. “so pretty, honey,” he mumbled against your skin every so often.

you started to feel vulnerable now, fully naked while he was entirely clothed. your hands quickly tugged at the bottom of his old t-shirt. “want this off,” you muttered half-mindedly.

he smiled and kissed your stomach once more before leaning up and pulling the shirt over his head, then kicking off his pants. “better?” he asked, planking over you again.

you nodded and pulled him down to kiss him. you could feel his leaking tip running up and down your slit with every rock of his hips. “please stevie, need to feel you,” you whimpered against his lips. you just knew this was gonna be painful since it had been so long. but you couldn’t wait any longer.

his eyes flickered across yours with a hint of worry in his pretty brown orbs. “you sure? think it’s gonna hurt,” he said quietly, mindful of your friends still sleeping downstairs.

“it’s okay, i know,” you replied surely. “i don’t care. jus’ need you inside me.”

he cursed under his breath, hardening even more if possible. his hand reached between the two of you and positioned his tip at your hole, slowly and carefully pressing inside of you. it made you hiss and squeeze your eyes shut. “oh, i know, honey. i’m sorry,” he cooed softly.

he leaned forward to capture your lips with his and feed his length into you slowly. fortunately, your juices made it a little less painful. he pulled away from your lips and rested his forehead against yours once he was about halfway. “oh fuck. such a good girl for me. always so good,” he praised quietly. his eyes shut as he grounded himself. if he moved any quicker, he was sure he would cum right now. “i love you. i love you so much.”

you whimpered at the stretch and dug your nails into his bicep. “i love you, steve,” you moaned. “feels so good.”

he pushed the rest of his length into you at a steady pace, bottoming out and sighed in pleasure. he leaned back some more to take in the sight of you. “jesus christ, sweetheart. you’re killin’ me here. you’re so fuckin’ pretty. so so pretty.”

you let out a quiet moan and looked up at him with pleading eyes. he understood your needs. he always did. his hips slowly pulled back before pressing into you again.

your toes curled at the fullness and your body shuttered. “oh, steve. so full. you’re so big,” you cried out.

that made his core tighten as he groaned. “fuck, honey. i’m not gonna last long. missed you so much,” he mumbled, leaning down to hide his face in the crook of your neck. his lips continued kissing over the scars there.

you nodded along and clawed at his back. “i’m close,” you whispered. usually the two of you would last much longer. but considering how long it’d been and how many pent up feelings there were, you two were okay with finishing fast. there’d be plenty more times to make up for this.

he rolled his hips into you slowly, massaging your walls and hitting that spot deep inside of you with each thrust. one of his hands found the back of your thigh and hiked it up over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to your ankle and rutting into you even deeper.

“holy shit,” you whimpered, holding on even tighter to him. you could feel your stomach tighten and your hole clench around him. his other hand came to rub circles over your puffy clit, instantly unraveling you.

he smiled dreamily at the sight of you coming undone. “that’s it, pretty girl. so good. feel like fuckin’ heaven,” he grunted, rolling his hips into you again few more time as you spasmed around him. he felt his balls draw up immediately. “christ, i’m coming. fuck.”

he carefully let your leg down and thrusted into your warmth a few more times as white ropes painted your insides. he collapsed on top of you and let his weight rest against you, knowing how much you enjoyed it. “i love you, stevie,” you mumbled sleepily into his shoulder.