Not that he’d been keeping count or anything.

ˆBut if he was (keeping count), it was exactly at 3:17 pm yesterday that you replied to his very sudden, very desperate “let’s meet at our spot” message with a very witty, very snarky, “welcome back from the dead, jason todd (again).” message.

Yeah, he deserved that one. And the many more you’d likely throw his way today.

God, it was hot out. He was sweating. Was he sweating through his shirt? If he’d worn the black shirt, it’d be harder to tell than with red. Fuck, should’ve just worn the stupid black shirt.

The soft dingle of a bell distracted him, following a wave of laughter as a group of teenage girls stepped out of the coffee shop he was standing in front of. Jason watched as they walked in front of him, each of them with different coloured iced drinks, green, pink, brown—even blue?—before they walked into the small bookstore next door.

Jason noticed there was a display of war novels in the window. It made him frown. You’re going to hate seeing that. You always hated military fiction. You always called it military propaganda, even if it wasn’t glorifying warfare.

Maybe he should get you a drink. He still remembered your order; you’d get the same thing every time. Maybe that barista still worked there; maybe they still remembered both yours and Jason’s usual.

But he hasn’t been here in a while. What if the barista quit?

What if you didn’t like that drink anymore?

But it was hot, and you’d probably appreciate it. He could imagine you grinning sweetly when you saw him holding your favourite drink.

Should he have gotten you flowers?

Footsteps slowed somewhere behind him. Jason turned before he could stop himself.

It was you.

For one impossible second, everything else seemed to dissolve. The chatter spilling out from the patio of the coffee shop faded into a distant hum, traffic blurred into meaningless noise, and even the suffocating summer heat loosened its grip around him. There was only the stretch of sidewalk between the two of you.

His hand lifted in an awkward wave before he could think better of it. Immediately, he regretted it. Should he have walked over instead? Met you halfway? Stayed where he was?

His feet had apparently made the decision for him.

They weren’t moving.

But you spotted him almost instantly.

The smile that spread across your face was sweet, the sort of smile that happened before you even realized you were smiling.

You waved back, and you picked up your pace.

As you got closer, Jason found himself noticing everything at once: the breeze catching the ends of your hair, sunlight slipping through the leaves overhead, scattering shifting patches of light across your shoulders as you walked beneath them. The familiar bounce in your step. The way your gaze kept darting back to him every few seconds, as though you wanted to make sure he hadn’t disappeared while you weren’t looking.

His eyes couldn’t seem to settle on just one thing.

You’d cut your hair. Not by much, but enough that it framed your face differently than he remembered.

Your skin had caught the summer sun, warmer now than the last time he’d seen you—when it was still cold and gloomy. The earrings were familiar, but the purse slung over your shoulder instead of the old backpack you’d carried everywhere was new.

You stopped just in front of him, close enough now that he could make out the little flecks of colour in your eyes that he’d forgotten existed.

You stopped in front of him.

“Hi,” you said kindly.

Jason hadn’t realized he’d started smiling until it hurt.

“Hey.”

Neither of you moved.

And then a couple of seconds passed.

You shifted your weight, smiling in that uncertain way people did when they didn’t know what to do.

You took another step forward.

Jason’s body reacted before his brain could, and he took half a step back.

“…Oh.” You froze.

Heat crawled at his neck. Nice going. Thirty seconds and he’s already made this weird.

“Sorry—” he blurted.

“No, I—”

“—I didn’t mean—”

You laughed, the sound escaping more out of embarrassment than anything else. “That was weird—I don’t know what I was doing."

“I just— Sorry. I don’t know what happened. I panicked.”

You raised your brows, amused. “You panicked?”

“...Yeah, a bit.”

That earned him a real laugh.

“Oh,” you teased, “do you think I was going in for a hug?”

Jason grinned, “You totally were.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you shrugged, no shame in your voice.

“I just wasn't sure if...” Jason glanced down at the pavement before looking back at you. “...if that’s still something we do.”

Something softened in your face. “Yeah, me neither.”

Jason watched as the strap of your bag slipped down your shoulder, and without thinking, your fingers reached up to hook it back into place. A second later, they drifted lower, absentmindedly finding the rings you always wore.

Jason nodded, unsure what to say next. Nonsensical chatter had never been his strongest suit.

He watched you fix the strap of your purse as it slipped from your shoulder, and he took this as a chance to look at you again. Your earrings were familiar, and you had colourful nail polish on. Were those new shoes? He’d never seen them before.

“Uh, you look grea—”

“Did you—?”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.” You said this time.

“No, it’s my bad.” he shook his head. “You go.”

“No, you go.”

“It wasn’t anything important, seriously.”

You paused, looking up at him. “…this is weird. Do you feel weird?”

Jason let out a breath. “I thought it was just me.”

“No, I feel it.” You said and started to twist the rings on your fingers. That made Jason’s shoulders relax; it was familiar—he’d seen you do that millions of times before when you were nervous.

Wait. Were you nervous? Right now? With him? Did he still make you nervous?

“Did you want to grab a drink?” you asked, nodding to the cafe. “It’s hot, and the AC would be nice.”

Jason glanced over his shoulder.

The little bell above the door jingled every few seconds as people came and went, letting bursts of cool air spill onto the sidewalk. He hadn’t realized just how miserable the heat had become until the thought of stepping inside sounded like a lifesaver.

“...Yeah. That’d be great.”

The blast of air conditioning hit them the moment the door swung shut behind them.

Jason let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The café looked almost exactly the same.

The scratched hardwood floors. The mismatched tables squeezed beside the front windows. Someone had added a shelf of secondhand books along the back wall since he’d last been there, but everything else was stubbornly familiar. Even the old playlist still floated lazily through the speakers overhead.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” you said, following Jason to the back of the small line. “Oh, no. Jamie’s not here.”

Jason turned to you, “Huh?”

“The barista,” you frowned, “I liked them. They made the coolest art on the lattes.” Then you beamed, turning to him fully, “Oh my god, Jason, do you remember that one time when they made a bird on your cappochinto?”

The line shuffled forward as he nodded. Your eyes were as wide as the day Jamie handed the mug to Jason. He could still remember the gasp you made, instantly pulling your phone out to take a million pictures of his drink and gushing to Jamie about it. “Yeah, that was cool.”

Jason glanced at the menu up on the wall.

“You getting your usual?”

You tilted your head at the sign, lips pursed in exaggerated concentration. Jason noticed you were wearing a new perfume now. It was nice.

“Actually,” You looked up with a smile. “I think I wanna try something new.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll get what you’re having.”

That made Jason do a double take. “…You sure?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, “I mean, you’re not planning on getting a hot drink, right?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then, yeah, I’ll get what you get.”

He looked at you for another second before shaking his head.

“You won’t like it.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you always like your coffee ridiculously sweet.”

You sputtered in disbelief, “What? No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Jason couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face even if he tried.

“I don’t—”

“You always get iced vanilla lattes.”

“That’s—”

“With like three pumps of caramel.”

“—ridicoulous. I’ve never—”

“Sometimes you don’t even get coffee—those, uh, colourful drinks.”

“Refreshers? That’s like rare.”

“You got them like every Saturday.”

You stared at him, mouth open in a wide smile. “You remember that?”

Jason shrugged one shoulder, suddenly very interested in the pastry display beside the register. “Yeah—I mean, yeah. I remember.”

The line moved again, carrying the two of you to the front.

“What can I get started for you two?” the barista asked with an easy smile.

Jason stepped forward.

“I’ll get an iced flat white.”

Before the barista could type it in, your voice came from beside him.

“Make that two, please.”

“You’re serious?”

You looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

“Just let me have this.”

The barista smiled to herself as she finished punching the order into the register. “Two iced flat whites.”

It was strange. Sitting by the same window you usually did, but not at your same old table. The old one had been tucked farther into the corner. From there, you could see the entire street outside—the bookstore, the crooked streetlamp, the restaurant across the street with the patio where people always fought over the last empty table whenever the weather got nice like today. This one only gave him half of it.

Something about looking out a familiar window from the wrong seat made the whole afternoon feel slightly off-centre.

Like trying to remember a dream and realizing one detail was wrong enough to make the whole thing foreign.

Jason wrapped a hand around his cup, letting the cold seep into his palm.

Across from him, you finally took your first sip.

“How is it?”

You paused before swallowing, “…good.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you nodded a little too soon, “It’s.. It’s delicious.”

He looked at you for a long minute. “Why’re you making that face?”

“What face?”

“That face you’re making—”

“I’m not making a face—”

“You are. Your mouth’s all twisted—”

“There’s no face. It’s good. It’s a good latte.”

“It’s a flat white.” Jason corrected you, taking a long sip for himself, making an unnecessarily exaggerated show of enjoying it.

You watched him with narrowed eyes before looking back down at your own drink, turning the cup slowly between your hands.

Your thumb traced absent circles through the condensation gathering on the plastic. “…Since when do you drink these?”

He looked up. “What’d you mean?”

“I thought you always drank your coffee black. Apart from cappuccinos, of course. But you only ordered those because you liked the art, and the lattes had too much milk.”

Jason blinked. Of all the things you'd remembered... That’s one of them?

He looked down into his cup.

“..Guess I’m trying something new.”

The answer came out before he’d really thought about it. He wasn’t even sure if it was true.

You hummed softly.

Then, with considerably less confidence than before, took another sip.

Your face scrunched almost immediately.

“...It’s bitter,” you finally admit.

“I knew it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Jason smiled. He watched you fight back a grin, hiding it as you turned your head to look out the window.

Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sugar packet. And then a couple more. He had grabbed a handful before you sat down. Jason put them on the table and slid them over to you until the paper nudged your finger.

Your eyes widened when you noticed, and you didn’t fight your smile this time as you tore open the packets. “Thanks,” you said, and poured all of them into your cup.

“Better?” he asked when you mixed your drink and tried it again.

You nodded, a little sheepishly, “A bit.”

“I can get you another drink if you want.”

“No. It’s fine.” You looked down into the cup again before smiling to yourself. “I’ll finish this one.”

Bonus:

When you stepped back outside, the afternoon didn't feel nearly as unforgiving.

The sun was still bright, still hanging lazily above Gotham's skyline, but the worst of the heat had settled into something gentler. A warm breeze drifted between the buildings, carrying the smell of coffee beans and old paper from somewhere nearby.

Your conversations came easier now. Neither of you had brought up the past, worldlessly deciding to keep it bureaucratic. You didn’t harp on old arguments or on why things hadn’t worked out the first time. It was all water under the bridge anyway; you’re both different than how you were months ago.

But it was still nice to have that small sense of familiarity. of walking side by side without thinking too hard on it. Close enough that shoulders brush and touch every few steps.

You slowed your steps as you neared the entrance of the bookstore next door and stopped when you reached the front window.

Jason took another couple of steps before realizing you weren’t beside him anymore.

You were standing in front of the display, arms folded tightly across your chest, staring through the glass with the kind of offended curve of your lip.

Jason doubled back until he was standing beside you again.

“So…” he said carefully. “What is it?”

You gestured lamely to the window, at the sign proudly declaring a new fictional war novel series in bold red lettering.

“What’s with the military propaganda?”