Starry Night

Who's this? And did he know he was making your panties wet?

"Bitch." The guy beside you — Mark, or something boring like that — grunted as he walked off.

"This bitch made you call her mommy." You clapped back, eyes still on the fine man across the room. His lips were rosy, you just knew this man ate pussy.

Your heels thunked on the carpet as you strutted over. "Have we met before?" You asked, drawing his attention away from the book. "Could've sworn I've seen you from somewhere." Yeah, the line was overused. That was the point.

"Uh, no, we haven't." Jason replied awkwardly, even more so as your palms rested on the table. He got a full view of you. Your skin had the glow of body oil, your gloss put a magnifying glass to your lips, crisp eyeliner, sunglasses perched on your head — who the fuck wore those to be indoors — chain dangling from your neck. Following the metal led to a clear view of your chest hidden by the lace of a bra peeking over a leopard print cami. You looked like you'd walked out of a Y2K magazine, like all the girls who’d shoved their tits in his face. He wasn’t dealing with that again. "Can I... help you with something?" He had pretty eyes. Where does a man get off, having those eyes?

You pointed to the book about American history beside him. “Can you pass me that?” Of all the god-awful flirting tactics that usually worked, it didn’t this time. He just muttered “sure” and passed you the book, going back to Jane Eyre.

What the fuck? How thick was his skull?

You walked out with frustration bubbling under heated skin. That was the first time a man didn’t stutter at the sight of you. He’d just acted like a book was more interesting than your lips. Fuck him for being that sexy and playing hard to get.

You’d missed his flush when his eyes fixed on your thighs as you exited.

Your stupid Carerra Cabriolet had broken down on the side of the road, when it was fucking boiling out. At least you’d chosen another tank today, it made things a little easier for you when you had your tools out, bent under the bonnet of the car, trying to figure out the problem.

The roar of a bike almost deafened you, until it stopped right beside you. Your eyes locked on faded Levis, biker boots, but those arms were unmistakeable. The tip of your tongue traced the outline of your canine, lips stretching the longer you recognised that build, those god-gifted hands that were tracing the pages of a book just a few days ago.

Would you look at that. The library hottie.

He lifted his helmet off, ruffling his flattened hair so it’d stick up. The black fell in front of mossy green eyes, which took you in. You were the same girl from the library, the one who he accidentally checked out when you walked away. The sun kissed your thighs from its perch in the sky, his gaze trailed up, up, tracing, memorising the black lace of panties peeking above the waistband of your shorts like they did again with your tank top. You seemed to be a fan of that. Your chest rose and fell with every laboured breath. He caught the tongue tracing your canine. Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped.

“Car trouble?” He asked, hooking his helmet on the handlebars of his bike. “That’s some great luck, in this heat.” His eyes followed a bead of sweat trailing down your neck. His tongue ached— fuck, why was it doing that?

“I sure am lucky.” You replied, velvet voice making something in his fingers twitch. And somewhere else that he wouldn’t mention right now. “D’you know your way around cars? I could use some help here.”

He should say no. He should say he didn’t know shit then drive off in his bike, but he wasn’t a liar and he wasn’t gonna strand you out here in high heats. So, yeah, he took his swelteringly hot jacket off — fashion over comfort if he wasn’t Red Hood — slinging it over your car’s trunk. “Yeah. Yeah, I can help.” He was so going to regret this.

Your eyes were still on him. The black highlighting your eyes only making warmth creep up his spine and making its way to his ears, but you didn’t budge. You just stared. His hands hovered by either sides of your waist, eyes tracing the curves, the rolls of your stomach as you bent a little towards him. A soft “fuck” was at the tip of his tongue.

His hands gripped your waist, moving you gently— shit, the callouses on his hands. They were rough on your skin; you weren’t afraid to somehow into that. Maybe all the men who overuse hand cream sensitised you to the guys who actually used their hands. “Sorry, can I just…”

He was keeping talking to a minimum. It made you smile, especially as his black tank brushed your back and his fingers pressed into the skin where your tank rode up. “Sorry.” He mumbled again, looking under the bonnet. His eyes caught the spark plug. “Here.” He gestured to your spark plug. “You’ve got a worn spark plug. Got a spare?”

“Yeah, I do.” You bent down, you felt his eyes slide over your ass, greedy, and down your legs, stopping at your high-heeled boots. Ripping his eyes away from you as you stood up, crisp wing striking again. He didn’t miss the glint in your irises when he took the plug from you, manicured nails scraping his fingers. His soft muttered “thanks” punctuated the replacement of the spark plug, and without another word, he backed off to his bike. Hoping to get away before his brain betrayed him.

“Can I get your number?” Your voice stopped him in his tracks. He tried not to look at your lips, your moving jaw as you chewed on spearmint gum that burned the back of his throat. “In case this kinda thing happens again. I could use a guy who’s good with his hands.” You really would use him.

“I, um, ok.” He swallowed, putting out his hand for your phone. You gave it to him, the freakishly soft pads of your fingers caressing his knuckles this time. He was fucked. But he keyed in his phone number, pressing the ‘save contact’ button and giving it back to you. You read the contact name.

“Jason.” His name slid over your tongue, through his veins, straight to his dick. What was it about you? He swore he was better than this. “Can finally put a name to the face.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t.” He regretted that as soon as it left his mouth. Now he couldn’t avoid making a connection, treating you like you actually meant something in his life. If he let you mean something, you’d distract him, he knew your type.

Oh, he didn’t know shit about you.

Your laugh shot up his spine, your name rang a million times in his brain when you gave it. It rang in the daydream of you on top of him, clothed pussy moving slow, languid, over his cock. It rang every time he moaned your name in that fucked up image. He— he had to stop that. Now. “See you.” He almost tripped over his words, swinging a leg to mount his bike. Your smile was fresh in his head. Your tongue, your teeth that and caught your bottom lip as you watched him drive away.

You’d have him. One way or another.

Your name lit up his phone one random Friday afternoon. A text, a simple one. Your shower stopped working suddenly and you needed his help.

“M’not a fucking plumber,” He muttered, but it was pathetic how quickly he stood up and got his jacket on. Pathetic was how fast his index hooked his keys like he was, line and sinker. Maybe he was your plumber. And mechanic. He could be anything you wanted him to be.

This was either the start of a really bad joke, or highly erotic pornography.

He hesitated before knocking on your door. Ignoring how he’d spent the last five minutes driving above the speed limit. Denial was one of five stages of grief, or its distant cousin: horniness.

He waited. One minute second, two minutes seconds, three— the door swung open.

A silk robe was wrapped around your body. Tied in a knot. Damp hair plastered to your cheeks, valley of your tits covered with cascading droplets that disappeared down the V of the fabric. Very… flimsy fabric that was covering you. Barely. Your no-gloss smile still stole his gaze. How were your lashes curled with no mascara? Your leg peeked out from beneath the silk. His breath hitched. His face flushed. “You came.” You purred.

“You called.” He replied stiffly, stepping in. Kicking off his shoes by the door. Your apartment was… luxurious, but he wasn’t expecting less. He was almost expecting a brothel. But that was stereotyping, he wasn’t a big fan of that. “So, your shower just stopped working?”

“Out of the blue.”

“What makes you think I know how to fix it?”

“A hunch.” The grin you had on made him feel like he ate shit. The defeatist sigh was his white flag.

“Your hunch would be right.” You notched the win on your robe’s belt. You watched his ass as he disappeared into your bathroom. Bingo.

It wasn’t like you were lying about the shower, it had stopped right before you were about to put on a hair mask. It just gave you a very good excuse to call your pet project over.

“Looks like it’s a pipe issue, I got it.” He called over his shoulder. This bathtub was bigger than his single bed. But then again it attested to the difference between la bourgeoisie and la pété thune. Draped over a radiator was your loungewear. Tiny things— rib-knit cami, sleep shorts that probably stopped just short of your ass, matching white panties. In a row, right there.

The panties caught his eye. They were soft, lace at the trim, satin otherwise, fuckin’ gorgeous. You wore those. Just to sleep, you wore those. What the fuck. Why the fuck. Why the fuck was his mouth watering? His tongue heavy? Aching? Begging to circle your clit over the fabric with his tongue just so he could watch the fabric dampen, drench, cling to your cunt? He had to get out of here. Drive off. Start a new life, maybe crash at Dick’s place in Blüdhaven. He’d be safer there.

He found the pipe problem. He fixed it, it was backed up. The panties called his name; since when was he susceptible to that?

“Those were a gift from Victoria’s Secret.” He hadn’t noticed his gaze was fixed on the white fabric draped on the radiator. It snapped back to you. You were leaning against the doorframe, tongue back on your canine. Now that he looked again, he realised it was pointy, like a vampire.

Now that he looked again, he wanted it to drag up his neck.

He looked back at the panties, back to you, tripping over his tongue. “I—I didn’t mean to—” He still stood up, ready to plead guilty and for forgiveness, but your hum stopped his train of thoughts.

You pointed at the panties, tilting your head. “You can keep those.” His brain almost short-circuited. Huh? “I don’t mind.” This was… if you were sane, you’d kick him out. Scream. Maybe get a restraining order.

“I—” Words caught in his throat, “you—”

“Keep them.” You insisted softly, picking up the panties, finger hooking into his belt loops. A sharp tug brought him close, too close for his dick to be comfortable in his jeans. Your fingers slipped into his front pocket of his Levis, tucking the satin panties into them. Never breaking eye contact. Your spearmint breath fanning across his lips. “Never gave you a proper thank you. For saving me twice.”

“You don’t need to do that.” He almost leaned in himself. To get a taste of whatever was on your tongue, to satiate himself while he didn’t have access to your pussy.

Your lips tugged. Into a smile that burned his insides. “Sure?”

“No.” He breathed, and his whole body melted before your lips even captured his. More like devoured. That was a better word for the nasty smack of lips on lips and how your nails carded into his hair. How you pushed your saliva into his mouth with your tongue, forcing his lips apart with a sharp tug to the hair at his nape.

He couldn’t stop the moan. The whine. His hands helplessly grabbed at your thighs, silk bunching up, itching to undo the robe, lips attaching to your jugular, sloppy, open-mouthed, greedy kisses stamped onto your skin.

You got him.

You’d got him, but you pulled him off your neck by the collar of his shirt. “Another time, sweetie.” His head followed the drag of your finger down his jaw, pressing into your finger as it trailed down his chest. “Gotta finish my shower.”

“When?” He rasped, pupils blown. Dick hard. Breath laboured after you pulled all the oxygen he had from his lungs.

You paused, pouting as you mused. “I’ll call you.”

Fuck.

He wished it was you riding him. He had to settle for your panties instead.

The fabric was soft against his palms, even more so against his dick as he fisted it. This wasn't even a measured affair, his sweats were haphazardly pulled down so the waistband collected around his upper thigh. Same went for his boxers, sheets only covering him from the knees down. Everything was silent, too still, save for his frantic breaths, whimpers and faint thwaps of his hand moving up and down his cock.

He needed your cunt to drag up his dick and make it wet, he needed your pussy to suck in his dick, to use it, use him, he needed your mouth by his ear telling him how good he made you feel. He was incomplete without it.

"Fuck, ma, please," He didn't know why he was begging, when you couldn't hear him. You were in your apartment, you couldn't hear him calling out your name to God knows who. Maybe worshipping at your altar was enough to grant him permission to, y'know, come.

Some sick part of him wanted to call you up. Ask you whether he could finally have an orgasm he'd been chasing for the last thirty minutes, it was a twisted thought, but his hand scrambled for his phone on his bedside table. Almost knocking it over amidst his moans.

He’d put you on speed dial at some point. He’d blacked out when he did, apparently, he couldn’t remember when. Sometime between fantasising you on top of him and picturing eating your pussy. The two weren’t mutually exclusive.

His thumb frantically tapped on the green button, knowing it was an ungodly hour of the morning. Knowing you said you’d call him when you wanted to fuck. He just wasn’t pressed to wait.

But you knew it’d happen. You’d been ticking off the hours in your head, laying on your king-size, for when this six-two hunk of a man would crack and call you, desperate for your permission. You’d played the waiting game before.

So you waited again.

Let the phone ring for ten seconds, really dragging it out, letting him delay himself that tiny bit more for an ego trip. He stared at your caller ID the longer his moans grew louder. His hand slowed down because he hadn’t heard your voice yet, he hadn’t asked you—

“Hello?” Your voice, sickly sweet, rang out from the phone. He put you off speaker, slamming the phone to his ear, so close, so ready, whining into the microphone. Your lips curled on the other end.

You could only hear his breathing. His paced up puffs of breath punctuated by needy whines which had your panties soaking through. Gosh, this really was something. “Speak up, Jason.” You sing-songed, prompting a low groan from him.

“Need t’come, ma.” He couldn’t recognise his own voice. Raspy, hoarse, from all the broken sounds he’d been letting out for god knows how long. “Can I—? Please — shiiiit — please lemme, m’so close.”

Your laugh was taunting. It only shot a shiver up his spine. “Oh, Jay,” He could practically hear your smirk through the phone, “you really need my pussy, huh?”

“Fuck, yeah, I do.” He nodded frantically, hand picking up the pace around his cock. Satin dragging against his skin. “Wanna — haah— feel that fuckin’ pussy around my cock, wanna— wanna taste it, m’gonna eat you so good, ma—”

Huh. You’d managed to break this guy in a matter of a week, an incredible feat, even for your standards. Here he was, babbling about going down on you. Your index crept down to circle your clit over your shorts. Your long sigh soothed his ear. “Mhm, Jay, I know, baby— come f’me?” The sugar talking earned you a deep moan from the other end, the shallow breaths and whimper of your name telling you he’d definitely come. His head thudded back against the pillows, covering his dick with your panties so they caught every thick rope of come. He felt so dirty. “Sounded so good, sweetie." That made it feel better. Less pervy.

There was a pause as he caught his breath and composure. “Fuck, ma, when m’I gonna see you?”

You'd never felt like this before.

Jason's tongue dragged over your cunt, almost folding you in half in the effort to make your thighs clamp around his head. His face was buried in your pussy, slurping whatever you had to give him, so much so that saliva mixed with your dripping arousal. He was moaning, moaning, against your clit, bumping it with his nose.

He was too fucked out to be methodical. Too fucked out from fucking his fist with your satin panties for a week when "I'll call you" was a long time coming. You'd finally told him to come over, after seven tortuous days.

He'd narrowly avoided getting a speeding ticket.

He rolled his hips, humping the bed so his dick would get some friction, pads of his fingers sure-fire bruising your skin, they'd be visible for days. You'd be walking around with his fingerprints blooming just under the hem of your shorts. That was hot.

Obscene slurping sounds had you gripping his hair harder as his thumb flicked and teased your clit, two fingers filling you up. "Oh, shiit, Jay," Your eyes rolled back at the intrusion. You were keeping him, for sure.

His fingers were long. Thick. Crooked from being broken one too many times. They instantly brushed your g-spot, he curled them just right, you couldn't help the moan that came when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked. Stacking one thing on top of another so he could make you feel as good as he did over the phone.

"Look at this—" He stopped to whine against your pussy, vibrations sending your head knocking back against your headboard, "this pretty fuckin' pussy, huh?" He was just babbling at this point, trailing off into incoherence the longer he licked you clean. "Kept me waiting so long, ma, jus' wanna make you feel good."

He'd never felt this bliss before.

Your clit dragged on the base of his cock every time you lifted yourself up and dropped back down. Hard slaps of skin on skin was the soundtrack to Jason grabbing your thighs in a frenzy, pupils blown, unable to look away while letting out the most lascivious moans you'd ever heard in your life as his glasses tilted with every bounce of you on his cock.

This was either the start of a really bad joke or highly erotic pornography.

That question got answered real quick.

He propped himself up, to be able to fuck up into you but also kiss the tits that had been taunting him for ages, sucking your nipple into his mouth like it owed him rent. You couldn't help the grab onto the strands of his hair that desperately needed a trim as he sucked insistently, one hand sliding between your thighs so he could rub his name onto your clit with two fingers. You'd spelled out your name in hickeys that spanned his neck and chest. Lipstick prints spanned his jaw and scarlet smeared over his lips.

His green eyes were desperate, looking up at you. "Fuuuck, ma, s'good," He mumbled incoherently, releasing your tits with a slick pop to run aimless kisses over your neck, "s'warm, feels fuckin'—" The smacks of his hips against yours, the smacks of his lips on your skin, they sent you barrelling to a new high.

Your hand messed up his hair, other leaving red trails across his back. Scarlet that any girl would look at and realise that this man belonged to someone. If they didn't get the hint from the smudged lipstick and hickeys. "Yeah, Jay, you're so good, huh?" You praised, his hips picked up the pace. Your head tilted back, clamping down on him, he swore into the crook of your neck. "I'm— m'coming, baby, come with me, yeah?"

"Uh-huh — shit, I — haah —" It was a wave submerging him that reached you too. A cry of each other's names that would end up with a noise complaint at your door the next morning, considering the headboard had been knocking the wall for the past two hours. He'd come inside you, warmth filling you till you felt it in your throat, hand stroking his hair as his breath shuddered against your neck. You were keeping him, for sure.

He lifted his head from your neck, you reached out to wipe the sweat from his flushed temple. His head followed your hand like it held his will to live.

He swallowed, panting. "Was that good?"

I’LL GIVE YOU WHAT I NEED (TILL IM LYING ON THE GROUND GOT ME PARALYZED) — @crsssie

And you tell him you love him like it's a universal truth — a truth that Tim isn't sure how to face.

FAIR WARNING: this has angst, but it hurts SOO good (I cried a bit), because it’s so real and genuinely i think the ending really fits, I genuinely love the open ending(?) and that’s rare for me— I tend to not really enjoy open endings due to not a lot of writers/authors not executing it properly, but this one?!?! I love it. AND ANDDDDD it’s so UNDERRATED. It’s by the same author from my other recommendation on their ao3 account!!!

please check out their ao3 account, they have a buttload of tim drake fics on there (I haven’t read all of them, but if you like the last two recommendations, definitely check them out!!)

YOU NEED TO BE YOURSELF (love someone for loving you instead of someone really cool) — cherrrydragon (ao3)

He takes a step closer, hesitant but determined to bridge the gap that has formed between you. “I’m sorry, but please. You're… you’re my best friend.” You shake your head. “You’re my best friend. I’m just… convenient for you.”

UGH. I’m a lover for unrequited love but not actually unrequited love, this one is a short oneshot and is slightly (a sprinkle) of angst but I enjoy this one as well— it’s really sweet and I like how it puts really well into words of growing up, your body changes as you grow, but your mind as well.

MAD DOG — difficultheart (ao3)

You just wanted to be a normal person with a normal life, working a normal job. Then you met Tim Drake, your younger brother got kidnapped, and your twin was arrested for a murder you know he didn't commit. Forced into a criminal underworld and trying to keep your non-human nature hidden, you work with Tim to find out who is plotting against the supernatural community in Gotham before it's too late.

WARNINGS: this is more of a tim drake/OC series, but it’s read in a second POV if you guys enjoy that. The ‘reader’ already has a set name, tattoos, and she’s korean. I personally like reading OC’s that could be read in second POV, so it still feels like reader and not the usage of y/n, and they’re a bit more fleshed out imo as an OC! it’s genuinely enjoyable to read, it’s understandable if it’s not anyone’s cup of tea, but definitely read the tags and give it a shot for the first chapter if you’re interested! 🫶🫶

Bruce always rocks up to the office exactly on time unlesss the night previous has been particularly cruel to him—thankfully, there’s always a welcome sight waiting for him.

This would be you, in your neatly-pressed office attire, your docket with the agenda for his day promptly prepared for him in one arm. In the other hand usually waits a cup of coffee or other little snack to help revitalize him before another big day of swimming in Gotham’s murky waters with the other sharks. 

You’re the first and last thing he sees and, although he is loath to admit it out loud—no, connections and even more so admittance of connections are things he must always avoid—you’re a sight he’s fonder and fonder of every day.

However, as of late, he’s noticed that when he’s been walking into the 25th floor where his office is, you’ve been present with the company of others. 

Exhibit A, when he walks in on Wednesday morning as the chrome doors to the elevator slide noiselessly open. 

You’re always the first thing that he searches for with those piercing blue eyes. Usually you can be found already approaching the doors to him, with a steaming mug and that clipboard of yours decorated with a collection of stickers that have begun to cover the acrylic surface. 

It always brings a small smile to his face that he’ll neither admit nor acknowledge as he watches you stride over in those confident bearings, his little assistant. His. 

And as the doors open for him today, you’re already saying that friendly, “Good morning, Mr. Wayne” as you approach. Yet rather than finding just you in the empty expanse of office desk, he finds his eyes settling upon the other figure that is casually leaning back on Martin from Accounting’s desk. 

And while his name is on your lips, he finds the circuitous rhythm of the routine disrupted as you walk towards him. After all, your head is turned back, over your shoulder, to the present company you share. 

“Hey, pops,” Tim says as he lounges back on the desk, giving a little lackadaisical wave, “Good to see you.”

“Tim?” Bruce asks aloud, because saying mine and drawing a proprietary hand around you is not work-appropriate behavior, much less before his son—guess he hasn’t woken up fully yet. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I come by and say hi to my old man?” Tim asks with a grin that is definitively friendly—only his eyes are tracing the curves of your figure as you stop before Bruce, holding out his customary mug of the day. Bruce doesn’t even feel the scalding burn of the sides as he palms it into his own. 

“Tim said he would keep me company until you got here,” you explain in that hushed, practiced tone you’ve perfected to a tee. “I’ve been keeping everything running as normal.” 

It’s not you he calls into question, but Bruce isn’t going to verbalize this as he takes a sip and locks eyes upon Tim, who is still locking eyes upon you. Subtle. 

“You’re always welcome,” Bruce says, keeping his tone pleasant as Tim finally deigns him with a smile, “But it is a welcome surprise.” 

“Well, wouldn’t want your assistant to get lonely while they wait for you to turn up.” Tim says, and it’s delivered lightly enough that a passerby would think it a wholesome joke. You even offer a genial, polite laugh as you return back to your desk to swipe something for Bruce. 

The look in Tim’s eye as he turns to watch you informs Bruce of all he needs to know. 

“Oh, is that so?” Bruce asks as you return with the files he asked you to round up last night. 

“Of course,” Tim smiles. “Speaking of which—“—he says your name, making you turn back to him with that cultivated patience—“—See the Rogues game last night?” 

The groan you make indicates that yes, you are still suffering over the farce between the Gotham Rogues and Metropolis’ Guardsmen last night. 

“Of course I did,” you reply to Tim, and there’s a trace of genuine emotion that bleeds through, beyond the polished veneer you wear around Bruce. Something about it, the fact that this was coaxed out by someone else, is making him feel oddly territorial. 

Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s still not awake yet. He takes another sip and steels a glare over the rim of the cup. 

“I can’t believe Ross dropped that pass in the third quarter,” you grimace as you hold out the folders to Bruce. “Here’s the files in order of month, Mr. Wayne.” 

“Excellent,” Bruce says, but as he is about to say something to get the train back on track, Tim pipes up again. 

“Pretty crazy, huh? Especially when Adams was wide open like that.” Tim tsks at the upset. You nod emphatically. 

“Absolutely—I’m livid they kept him in the game after that.” You reply evenly, remembering that you are in a public sphere. You reach out to take the mug from Bruce in a trade, some intrinsic sense urging you to do so—another thing he’s grateful to you for. Another thing he’d like to appreciate, alone. 

“Well, you know, they drop a couple hundred million on him,” Tim shrugs, “They’re gonna want to keep him out there.” 

“Yeah, but Priest’s all healed up now.” You reply as you circle back to your desk with your exchanged goods—Bruce watches as Tim watches you. “It would’ve been good to see if he’s ready for the court again.” 

“Oh, I bet.” Tim says, and his eyes are drifting far enough down your back that Bruce feels like it’s time to make a call. 

“Tim,” he says in a voice he reserves for difficult meetings, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Nope,” Tim replies, and hops off the comfortable perch he’d been making on the table. “Just wanted to stop by and check on you.” 

The fact that the ‘you’ seems left up to interpretation is not easing Bruce’s nerves. Even as this interloper known as his son makes his way back towards the elevator he just emerged from. 

On the way out, Tim passes by you, pausing long enough for the two of you to exchange smiles—jovial enough, affable enough. On your end. And then he stops. 

“You know, if you’d ever want to see a game together,” Tim blithely says your way, “I’d be happy to take you to one in person.” 

You smile back. “That’s very sweet of you to offer, Tim. I’ll have to let you know.” 

It’s only your tactful grace that keeps a vein from bursting open in Bruce’s temple. Tim lets your response roll off him like water off a duck’s back. 

He gives you an easy, “Sure—I’ll stop by again sometime so you can get my number.” 

“Sounds good, Tim.” You reply neutrally, because even though you’re caught in the odd territory of being asked out by the boss’ son, you are also still expected to play nice. 

Tim nods and then smiles Bruce’s way as he leaves. “Be seein’ you, pops.” 

Bruce has a headache for the rest of the day. You make sure to slide him some of the good painkillers you keep tucked away in that second drawer of yours on the left. 

Bruce knows Jason doesn’t have to return anything. He’s never once borrowed anything off of Bruce except his time and patience. Yet here he is on Thursday, during your lunch break, which means that all Bruce can do is pretend he’s reading the docket you’ve prepared for him at your desk. 

And Bruce refuses to let you out of his sight, especially after that offensive attack yesterday. Especially not after the way Jason slunk in through the doors with a sleek, menacing, “Hey, dad—”—and then went straight to your desk. 

No, Bruce is staying right here, flipping pages at what seems appropriate intervals of time as you sip on your lunchtime smoothie and entertain his middle child. Entertain being the operative word for the way his eyes, much like his younger son, seem to openly roam over you. 

“You hear about that new exhibit they got over at the Wills?” Jason asks, his voice like a rough, jagged note in the synchronicity of the Wayne Towers atmosphere. Bruce doesn’t like the way that you brighten at his question. 

“Oh, the bike exhibit—”—you nod eagerly, a genuine smile on your face at its mention—“—The one on loan from Star City?” 

“Yep—heard there’s a lot of classics they have on display.” Jason replies smoothly, watching your reaction closely. 

You make a wistful sigh as you adjust your reusable straw. “I’ve been dying to get a chance to go see it. I heard they have a 1973 Kawasaki on loan.” 

“‘68 Norton Commando too.” Jason says, an appreciative glint in his eyes for your knowledge. Amongst other things, Bruce reckons as he sweeps his eyes up from the paper that is crumpling under the grip of his hand. 

“Ugh,” you gripe, “I’ve been trying to get my hands on a ticket, but the window closes up so fast—I’d kill for a chance to see one of those bikes up close.” 

Jason scoffs, “You ever actually been on a bike yourself, sweetheart?”

You offer a coy smile, not one to back away from the challenge. “Do I have to be an expert to admire fine art?” 

“Maybe you should have hands-on experience before you call yourself an ‘expert.’” He returns calmly, daring you to argue otherwise. 

“I have eyes—I can handle myself.” You reply with a smile. 

“That’s what they all say until they hop on.” Jason challenges back, crossing his arms over his chest. You take a sip, clearly amused at his brashness, but let him continue. 

A corner of his mouth turns up as he says, “Delicate thing like you might not be able to handle the ride.”

“And who’ll be the judge of that, Jason?” You ask. “You?” 

“I wouldn’t mind nominating myself,” he replies dryly. Bruce thinks it’s about now that he should step in. 

“Jason—”—Bruce asks, closing the docket shut with a snap and feeling that familiar clenching pain around his temples, “What do you need?” 

Jason looks to Bruce as though he’s displeased at the interruption but still entertained at the glower wracking across his dad’s face. Besides him, Bruce can see the composed impartiality return to your face as you watch this silent exchange. 

All Jason says before he departs with a wily smirk is, “Don’t think you’d like it if I told you.” 

You make the coffee extra strong for Bruce to prepare him for navigating the rest of the afternoon. 

Friday morning, Bruce finds company waiting besides him on the bottom floor of Wayne Enterprises, ever-present for the arrival of the elevator. 

“Hey, daddio.” Dick greets him with a rather jaunty pep in his step. He’s smiling, which is cause for both good and bad things—but Bruce is always happy to see his eldest. 

“Dick, I didn’t know you were coming so early today.” Bruce states with a note of genuine surprise, because it’s true. Dick’s supposed to roll up sometime at the end of the day, for the night shift. Not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the wee hours.  

“Early bird and all that.” Dick offers as a non-explanation, and then as the doors crack open, tacks on, “There’s just—something I have to handle.”

“Such as?” Bruce asks as they step in. The doors seem to close more ominously behind them than they have as of late. 

“I’ll tell you later.” Dick grins back at him, and so they’re subjected to an odd, tensely silent lift up. Bruce doesn’t think he’s seen Dick shift weight from foot-to-foot since they first started patrol together decades ago. He radiates a nervousness that belies his age, as if he’s readying himself for uncharted territory. 

When the door slides open to the 25th floor, Dick slips through as soon as he’s able, tossing over his shoulder, “Don’t wait up for me—I’ll meet you in your office.” 

Bruce is all but stymied for the better half of an instant until he sees who Dick makes a beeline to, sitting pretty at a neatly organized desk, coffee waiting for him as usual. He feels as if he’s walking in slow-motion as he steps out of the carriage and watches as his son goes in for the kill. 

“Oh, hi, Dick!” You smile cheerfully as you watch Bruce’s eldest approach you, rising to your feet from behind your desk. 

“Hey—”—Dick says your name with the radiance of a thousand suns—“—Got a minute?” 

“Sure I do, but I think your dad is expecting me—”—you say, because you’re already clocking Bruce’s wrathful aura from the mere yards away where it gestates. 

“He doesn’t mind waiting,” Dick easily lies, making you turn warily away from your boss and back to his progeny. “A little birdie told me you’re a fan of classic movies—”

“Sure I am, I love a good Bergmann as much as anyone.” You say, sufficiently distracted enough by this. Dick’s smile grows. 

“Well, funny you should mention it—”—he pauses for good measure, already wading into the last of the reserves of Bruce’s patience—“—I heard Seigel’s showing The Seventh Seal next week.”

“Oh—that’s a good one.” You nod obtusely, as though you can’t see the direction this conversation is inching towards. “I’d say it’s his best.”

“Me too—and the person I was going to have go with me just had something come up.” Dick makes a passable acting attempt at appearing disappointed. “So I was thinking—”

“Thinking of what, Mr. Grayson?” You ask, and perhaps it’s the way you use his surname that makes Bruce relax a tick as he leans on the balustrade by the elevator. You’re friendly, yes—but he sees the calm way you’re operating. You know how to handle this. But still—

“Thinking if you’re free, then maybe I should take you out next week, if you want.” He braves forward. 

“Dick—”—Bruce summons the voice he uses during the night shift—“—Get in my office.”

Dick, to his credit, only stiffens a little, his smile failing to waver. “Ah, the sounds of childhood nightmares. You can tell me when I should pick you up—when I swing back on the way out.” 

“Have a good day, Mr. Grayson.” You finally smile, as you watch Bruce and Dick retreat back to the island of his office. It’s only until the door shuts behind them that you can let out the breathless laugh that you’ve been holding in. 

You see yourself into Bruce’s office at the end of the day, taking care to close the door behind you with a muted click. He’s already waiting for you, his fist propped against his temple as he leans an elbow on the surface of his great desk. His eyes are like flint as he regards you. 

“Mr. Wayne, I should let you know—”—you say, smoothing out the wrinkles to your pants—“—One of your sons asked me out.” 

“Which one?” His voice is stark. 

“Well—”—you hesitate as you search for the best way to word it—“—All of them, actually.” 

“Hmmm. That does make it a bit…awkward.” Bruce says as you round the corner of his great desk. He watches you only with his eyes as you lean a hip on the desk, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“A bit, or a lot when they find out I’m already dating their dad?” You ask wryly.  

“It depends.” He returns, holding out an imperious hand that you freely walk to. His fingers curl around your hip, pulling you to him so that you find yourself being eased onto his lap, his other arm wrapping possessively around you. 

“Maybe I haven’t been making my intentions clear enough.” He says, settling a grave stare upon you. You opt to be prim in your response as his hands snake down your thighs. 

“You’ve been quite right to be professional, Mr. Wayne—”—you reply as he lifts up your hand, to press a slow kiss to the inside of your wrist. 

“Bruce, darling.” He mouths over your pulse, squaring his eyes upon you. You grin as you correct yourself. 

“—Bruce—”—his eyes dart back down, satisfied—“—Especially at your place of business.” 

“Why should I?” He asks, and you inhale sharply as you feel the scrape of teeth over your skin. “Seems to me like I should let them know who’s boss.” 

“Was that a joke?” You tease, but your last word comes out pitched as you find yourself pulled closer. His hands are roaming down to explore parts of you most certainly not suitable for the workplace.

“Come here and find out.” He says, voice slipping into a register you’ve come to know quite intimately after hours. You feel a shiver slip up your spine as you let him have his way. 

“As you wish.” You smile, ever his happy, obedient assistant. 

You had called him barely a day after that long conversation in the living room. Your voice was gentle when you said Lizzie was ecstatic but a little nervous, that she wanted to meet him, and that your apartment at two on Saturday would be best.

He agreed without hesitation, the word yes leaving him before you even finished speaking. And as soon as the call ended, he was already counting the minutes, then the hours, until he could finally see her.

The night before meeting her was torture. He barely slept, tossing and turning as his mind spun through every possible scenario. Would she be scared of him? Would she cry? Would she stare at him with those big green eyes and somehow see right through him? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a different version of their first meeting, none of which made sleep any easier.

Jason woke up after barely three hours of shallow, jittery rest, his heart already racing like he was late for something important. His apartment felt too small, too quiet, too heavy with expectation.

He wandered around in circles for a while, then planted himself in front of his closet with the kind of dread usually reserved for rooftop fights. After spending far too long worrying about what he should wear, he muttered beneath his breath in pure frustration.

Why’s this so goddamn difficult?

Choosing a jacket felt like a life-or-death decision. A shirt felt like a statement. Jeans felt too casual. Boots felt too intimidating. He changed three times before throwing himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands, groaning at himself like he was some teenager getting ready for prom instead of a 21-year-old vigilante meeting his five-year-old daughter for the first time.

Eventually he pulled himself together. He picked something simple. Soft. Unthreatening. Something that didn’t scream Red Hood or dead boy resurrected in the wrong timeline.

He looked at himself in the mirror and tried to imagine what a little girl would see.

What his little girl would see.

His chest tightened painfully.

God. He wanted this to go well so badly it scared him.

Now, with five minutes until two, he’s standing at the end of your apartment hallway, just out of view of your door. His palms are sweating, his heartbeat is too loud, and his feet refuse to move no matter how many times he tells them to. Every breath feels tight and uneven.

His doubts replay in his head, none of which have been helpful. Is it selfish? Is it stupid? Is he dragging you and Lizzie into something messy and uncertain because he wants something he isn’t sure he deserves?

Is it selfish to hope she’ll like him? Is it selfish to want to know her favorite colour, what books she reads, what makes her laugh? Is it selfish to wish he could be something more than a ghost in her life?

He presses a hand against the wall beside him, grounding himself as a fresh wave of doubt washes through. His vision blurs for a second, not with tears but with the sheer force of fear.

Because what if she looks at him and sees a stranger? What if she hides behind you? What if he ruins this before it even begins?

Still, beneath all that fear, there’s a small, desperate thread of hope pulling him forward. The hope that he can at least try. That maybe he can give her something, anything, that resembles a father, even if he’s late and broken and scared out of his mind.

Jason forces himself to take one more breath, then another, until his hand finally lifts. His knuckles hover above the door for a full second before he knocks, barely louder than a heartbeat. The sound feels too small for something this life-changing, but it’s all he can manage.

He hears movement inside. Soft footsteps. A quiet voice, yours, saying something he can’t make out. Then the door opens. You stand there, gentler than you’ve ever been, like you were expecting him to be shaking like this. You take one look at him and your shoulders soften.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Come in.”

His body moves before his brain catches up, feet carrying him over the threshold into the warmth of your apartment. It’s the same space he saw yesterday, but it feels different now. Charged. Expectant.

You close the door gently behind him. “She’s in her room,” you say. “She wanted to… get ready.”

He nods, eyes drifting toward the short hallway, imagining her on the other side. Imagining what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling, what she knows of him beyond the stories you told.

You step closer, your voice softening. “She’s excited, Jason.”

He turns to you, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”

You nod. “A little shy. A lot curious. But excited.”

Warmth flickers through him, fragile and unbelievable. He lets out a small breath, shoulders dropping slightly as if the air in the room allows him to breathe again. You gesture toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

He sits carefully, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. The room smells like vanilla and something citrusy, the kind of scent that makes a place feel lived-in, loved. You give him a reassuring look before you disappear down the hallway.

Jason is left alone with the sound of his heartbeat, the quiet hum of your apartment, and the knowledge that he is seconds away from meeting the child he never got to hold. The soft shuffle of two sets of footsteps pulls Jason out of the spiral in his head. He straightens instinctively, heart climbing somewhere too high in his chest.

You appear first, walking slowly, giving her space to follow at her own pace. Lizzie peeks out from behind your hip, half-hidden, half-curious. She grips your hand with one small fist, but her bright eyes are already fixed on him, studying him with an intensity that feels achingly familiar.

“Lizzie,” you say gently, giving her hand a little squeeze, “this is Jason.”

You look at him, then back at her. “Jason, this is Lizzie.”

He rises from the couch and crosses the room with deliberate softness, lowering himself into a crouch so he’s not towering over her. Everything in him wants to reach for her, but he keeps his hands to himself, waiting, letting her decide.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, voice warm but tentative.

Lizzie steps out from behind you with a seriousness far too big for her age, expression scrunched in careful thought. She looks him over slowly, head tilted.

“You’re my dad?” she asks, quiet but steady, hope and caution tangled together in her small voice.

Jason’s breath catches. He manages a smile, soft and aching all at once. “I am,” he says quietly. “Yeah. I’m your dad.”

She absorbs that, eyes widening just a little. Her next question is even smaller, like she’s afraid of getting the wrong answer.

“Do I call you Dad?”

Something in him twists, sharp and full and overwhelming. His smile stays, though it wavers at the edges. He shakes his head gently.

“You can call me whatever feels right,” he tells her. “Dad, Jason… anything you want.”

Lizzie considers this with the gravity of a world leader, chewing on her bottom lip. Jason waits, still crouched, still breathing carefully, still trying not to fall apart.

“Do you like books?” She asks suddenly, the question popping out of her like she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Jason blinks, caught off guard in the best possible way. His smile widens, warmer, more real than anything he has managed so far. “I do,” he says softly. “A lot.”

Lizzie shifts her weight from one foot to the other, pride flickering through her shy posture. “I read lots of books,” she tells him, chin lifting just a little. “I’m at a fourth-grade reading level.”

Jason’s chest tightens, something bright blooming behind his ribs. “That’s really impressive,” he says, meaning every word. “Do you have a favourite book?”

She scrunches her nose, thinking hard, and the small gesture knocks the air out of him because it is so deeply, undeniably you. “I like Pride and Prejudice,” she finally says with a little nod, as if confirming it to herself at the same time. “Mommy reads it for me. She has to explain a lot though, the words are big and weird.”

Jason’s breath stutters. Pride and Prejudice.

Of course.

Of course you would.

He glances at you without meaning to, something gentle and stunned in his expression, before looking back at her. “That’s a really special book,” he says, voice soft, warmed by too many memories at once. “You picked a good one.”

Lizzie seems to glow at his answer, a shy excitement bubbling just under her skin. She shifts her weight again, then suddenly reaches out and takes Jason’s hand with her small one. The touch is light, hesitant, but certain. “Come see,” she says, voice gaining confidence. “I wanna show you.”

Jason startles a little, eyes flicking to you as if silently asking permission. You give him a small, steady nod.

Lizzie tugs gently, and Jason follows her down the short hallway, careful and slow, like he’s approaching something fragile and sacred. Her bedroom door is covered in crayon drawings, uneven star stickers, and polaroids of the two of you. She pushes the door open with her shoulder, letting him step inside first.

The room is warm and soft and so unmistakably her. A string of dim fairy lights. A tiny desk cluttered with pencils. A stuffed animal army guarding the bed. And shelves—three of them—packed with books of all shapes and sizes.

“These are mine,” she announces proudly, letting go of his hand so she can rush over and gesture at every shelf. “This row is fairy tales. And these are chapter books. And this is my special shelf.” She taps the middle shelf, the one arranged most carefully. Jason notices Pride and Prejudice near the center, worn at the edges like it’s been opened again and again.

Jason steps closer, taking everything in. “You read all of these?”

She nods eagerly. “Mommy helps me with the harder ones. But some I can do by myself.”

Jason feels something in him tilt, soften, unspool. He crouches beside her, letting his fingers rest on the edge of the shelf, not touching the books,just grounding himself. “They’re amazing, Lizzie,” he says quietly. “You’ve built yourself a whole world in here.”

She beams at him, bright and earnest. “You can read with me too,” she says, almost whispering, like it’s a secret she’s nervous to offer. “If… if you want.”

Jason swallows, overwhelmed in a way he isn’t used to. He nods, voice rough but sure. “I’d like that,” he says. “I’d really like that.”

Lizzie beams at his answer, rocking on her heels like she’s trying to contain a joy too big for her small body. Jason can’t stop watching her, memorizing every little expression, every shift of emotion. He doesn’t realize you’ve been standing in the doorway until you speak.

“She loves showing off her shelves,” you say softly, leaning against the frame with your arms loosely crossed. “She reorganizes them every few weeks. Says it keeps the stories from getting lonely.”

Lizzie huffs. “They do get lonely, Mommy. Books need friends too.”

You smile, warm and fond. “I know, baby.”

Jason glances back at you, something almost shy flickering in his expression. “It’s a pretty impressive collection,” he says. “She’s smart. Really smart.”

Lizzie perks up at that, preening a little. “Mommy says I get that from her.” She pauses, then adds with deadly seriousness, “But I’m stubborn like you.”

Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a laugh, and Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh yeah?” he says, turning back to her with a mock-offended look. “And who told you that?”

Lizzie points at you immediately, a traitor without hesitation. “She did.”

You groan. “In my defense, you were very stubborn.”

Jason gives you a look that’s almost a smile, softened by something deeper, sadder, but hopeful. “You weren’t exactly docile either.”

Lizzie looks between the two of you, confused but curious. “Were you friends?”

The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Jason swallows first. “We were… very important to each other,” he says quietly.

Your eyes meet his. There’s history in the look. Hurt, love, something unfinished, but growing warmer. You clear your throat gently and step into the room. “Hey, sweetheart,” you say to Lizzie, brushing a hand over her hair, “why don’t you pick a book to show Jason? Just one for now.”

Lizzie immediately darts to her shelves with a gasp of excitement. “Only one? That’s impossible.”

You look at him from the doorframe with a soft, knowing smile, your shoulder resting against the wood. Lizzie’s still shuffling through her shelves, muttering to herself about which book is the “best one to show him first.”

“How’re you feeling?” you whisper, your voice barely above the rustle of pages.

Jason lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, his hand pushing through his hair like he’s trying to keep himself upright. “Perfect… she’s perfect.” But even as he says it, he shakes his head a little, as if the word isn’t nearly big enough. His eyes flick to Lizzie again, watching her stand on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf, her brows pinched in concentration. He notices the way she sticks her tongue out when she’s thinking hard. The little bounce in her step. The faint freckles on her nose.

You and him made that.

You and him made her.

“I–” he tries, voice catching. He pinches the bridge of his nose and laughs, thick and shaky, like he’s holding back something bigger. “God, I don’t even know what to do with all of this.”

Your expression softens, almost tender. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” you murmur. “Just… be here.”

Lizzie finally settles on a book—one of her fairy-tale collections—and spins around, holding it up proudly. “This one!” she declares, rushing over to Jason with the book nearly half her size.

Jason wipes quickly at the corner of his eye with his thumb before she can look up long enough to notice. Then he sinks to a seat on the small rug in the center of her room. Lizzie plops down beside him without hesitation, leaning against his arm like she’s known him all her life.

You step a little farther into the room, leaning against her dresser now. “She picked that one because it has the longest stories,” you say softly, a small teasing warmth in your voice. “She thinks that makes it more impressive.”

Lizzie gasps dramatically. “Mommy! No I don’t.” Then she looks up at Jason and whispers loudly, “I do a little.”

Jason smiles—really smiles—for the first time since he walked through your door. “Well,” he says, flipping open the book, “I think that’s pretty impressive too.”

And as Lizzie scoots even closer, practically climbing into his side, you watch something settle in him.

For a while, the only sound in Lizzie’s room is the soft shuffling of pages and the tiny hum she makes when she’s focused. Jason sits cross-legged on the floor beside her beanbag chair, careful and gentle and a little overwhelmed, while you watch from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms loosely crossed.

Time slips by without any of you noticing. Lizzie insists on showing him every book she owns, even the ones she claims are “too baby-ish now,” and Jason listens to her explanations with a patience and awe that softens his entire face. Eventually, she settles on Pride and Prejudice and climbs onto her bed, patting the spot beside her.

“Read it with me,” she demands quietly, the way children do when they’re trying to be polite but are too excited to hide it.

Jason glances at you. You nod. So he sits. You watch the two of them on her small bed, Lizzie curled against his side with the book open across both their laps. His voice is soft, careful, stumbling only slightly over the older prose, and every time Lizzie giggles at a line she doesn’t understand, he looks at her like it’s his new favorite sound.

Hours pass that way.

You lose count of how many chapters they get through. You lean against the doorframe until your shoulder aches, and then you sit on the floor, listening with a full, aching heart. At some point, Lizzie’s legs end up draped over Jason’s thigh, and he rests his hand lightly over her ankle without even thinking. She doesn’t seem to notice. You do.

The sun dips lower. The light in the room turns honey-gold. You check the time and blink in surprise. It’s almost six. Before you can say anything, Lizzie snaps the book shut and looks up at Jason with an expression he has no defense against.

“Can you stay for dinner?” she asks. The question is casual, but her eyes are wide and hopeful, like she’s bracing herself for a no.

Jason freezes. He looks at you again, almost helplessly, like he’s afraid to want this as badly as he suddenly does. You step further into the room, unable to stop the soft smile that tugs at your lips. “That’s up to him,” you say gently. “We’re just having pasta.”

Lizzie bounces a little. “I can help make it. Mommy lets me stir.”

Jason’s throat works around something he can’t quite swallow. He drags a hand through his hair, the motion shaky, and you can tell he’s trying so hard not to get emotional in front of her. “I… yeah,” he finally says. His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d like that.”

Lizzie beams, instantly scrambling off the bed to run toward the kitchen. Jason watches her go, something tender and bright and terrified blooming across his face, before he turns to you.

You give him that warm, steady smile again.

“Come on,” you murmur. “She’ll be upset if we’re not right behind her.”

Jason ends up staying far longer than just dinner. One hour bleeds into the next without either of you truly noticing. By nine, the living room is dim except for the soft glow of the TV, a half-finished bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and Lizzie sound asleep against Jason’s shoulder. She had insisted he sit next to her on the couch for the movie, then had slowly, inevitably, melted sideways until her cheek rested right over his heart.

Now the room is quiet in that strange, full way where even the silence feels like it’s holding its breath. Jason doesn’t dare move. He sits there frozen, as if one shift of his arm might undo the entire night. His hand rests lightly on her back, steady and protective, his thumb brushing unconsciously back and forth over the fabric of her little sweater. He keeps his eyes on the screen even though he hasn’t processed a single frame in the last ten minutes.

You stand from your own spot on the couch, smoothing your hands over your thighs. The sudden space between you feels awkward and delicate in a way it hadn’t earlier, when Lizzie’s constant commentary kept the edges soft.

“I should take her to bed…” you murmur, and you hate how unsure your voice sounds. You nod toward Lizzie, who’s now drooling slightly against his shirt. “I’ll be right back.”

Jason looks up at you slowly, almost reluctantly, as if he’s afraid taking her away will break some fragile spell. His eyes are warm and overwhelmed and so soft it makes your chest ache.

You take a small step closer, reaching for your daughter. “It’s okay,” you whisper, gentler this time, inviting him to let go.

He swallows, shifts, and carefully slips his arm out from under her. Lizzie barely stirs, mumbling something incoherent as she curls instinctively into your shoulder. Jason’s hand lingers in the air for a second longer than it needs to.

You give him a small smile before turning toward the hallway with your daughter in your arms. “I’ll be right back,” you say again, and this time it sounds like a promise.

You return a few minutes later, the soft click of Lizzie’s bedroom door settling behind you as you step back into the warmly lit living room. Jason looks up the moment you appear, as if he’d been waiting for you to cross that threshold. His eyes find yours and hold, and there’s something in them that almost knocks the breath from your lungs. Something tender, something overwhelmed, something that feels so achingly familiar you have to blink through it.

You move to sit beside him again, the couch dipping gently under your weight. Before you can say a word, he shifts closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch or disappear. His hand hesitates in the space between you for a second before finally reaching for yours. His fingers curl around yours with such care, as if your hand is something delicate and valuable, something he’s terrified of losing again.

He stares down at your joined hands for a long moment before lifting his gaze back up to you. There’s no anger now, no confusion, no sharpness. Just awe, raw and unfiltered. The kind that makes your heart thud painfully against your ribs.

“You…” His voice comes out low, almost disbelieving, as if he’s trying to put a feeling into words that don’t exist. “You made this.”

His breath catches. He squeezes your hand just a little tighter.

“Her,” he clarifies, eyes flicking in the direction of the hallway where Lizzie sleeps. “You made her. You raised her. You did everything on your own and you still… God.”

He breaks off for a moment, swallowing hard, as though the emotion is rising too fast for him to keep up with.

“You’re incredible,” he says finally, the words almost trembling with sincerity. “I mean it. I don’t even know how to explain it. I’m sitting here in this little life you built from nothing and I just keep thinking… you did all of this. You kept going. You kept her happy. You kept her safe. You made this whole world for her, and I wasn’t here, and you still…”

He trails off again, eyes shining in a way that makes your throat tight.

Jason scoots even closer, knees brushing yours now, the couch barely giving him room but he doesn’t seem to care. His thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he repeats, quieter this time but somehow even more full. “I don’t think I ever understood the word until now.”

You don’t know how long the silence lasts, only that your heart is pounding loud enough you’re certain he hears it. Jason still has your hand in his, brushing his thumb slowly over your knuckles, almost reverent. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, the room, the moment. Like he’s afraid he’ll blink and lose it all.

You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away. “Jason,” you whisper, barely more than breath. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that.”

He exhales, the sound thick, almost pained. “I can’t help it.”

Your chest tightens. He shifts just a little closer, knees brushing yours, his hand still cradling your own like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. “For years, I thought I lost everything. Literally everything. And now I’m sitting on your couch, after dinner, after a movie, after reading bedtime stories with a little girl who looks like she stole the best pieces of both of us and put them in her pockets.”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks and look down, but he gently lifts your chin with one finger. Not forceful. Just enough to guide you back into his eyes. “And you,” he murmurs, his voice almost unsteady. “You did this. You survived. You built a life for her. You built a home. I don’t know how you did it all alone.”

“I wasn’t going to be alone forever,” you tell him quietly. “I had my mom, and my sister. I had school. I had work. I had Lizzie. I had… memories of you.”

Something in him breaks at that. Not painfully, but softly, like a door quietly unlocking. His grip on your hand tightens. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For everything. For not being here. For not knowing. For not coming back to you.”

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “You died, Jason. You weren’t supposed to come back.”

“I know. But I did.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “And I want to do this right. I want to be here. I want to know her. I want to…” He trails off, eyes flicking to your lips for the briefest moment before flicking back up, almost panicked at himself. You inhale sharply.

Jason immediately drops his gaze, clearing his throat. “Sorry. Too fast. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say gently. “Just… I don’t know.”

He nods, slow, understanding, earnest. And then he surprises you by leaning forward, resting his forehead against yours. Not a kiss. Not quite. Just a grounding, tender press as he breathes you in like he’s been missing oxygen for years. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For giving her life. For giving me a chance.”

Your eyes slip shut. “Jason…”

Your phone vibrates on the coffee table, interrupting the almost—something. You both jolt a little, the intimacy broken in the softest, most natural way. You glance at the caller ID. Your sister. Probably calling to see how today went. When you hang up, you find Jason watching you again, but this time the intensity has softened into something calm. Something steady.

“I should go,” he says quietly, though his tone sounds like he’d stay forever if you asked him to. You nod, even though a part of you wishes he didn’t have to leave. He stands slowly, hesitates for a second, then opens his arms just barely, an invitation, not an assumption.

You step into him without thinking.

His arms wrap around you, strong and warm, pulling you in with a sigh that sounds like relief and heartbreak stitched together. Your cheek rests against his chest, his chin brushing your hair. You can feel his heartbeat. It’s fast. “I’ll come back,” he murmurs into your hair. “Whenever you’ll have me.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding on for one more second. “I’ll text you,” you whisper back.

He pulls away reluctantly, gives you one last look—soft, hopeful, reverent—then slips out into the hallway.

You lock the door behind him, lean your back against it, and let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Across the hall, Lizzie shifts in her sleep, completely unaware that everything in her world has just changed. And downstairs, in the quiet hallway, Jason Todd stands still for a moment, hand braced on the wall, breathing like he’s relearning how.

You didn’t realize that when Jason said whenever you’ll have me, he truly meant it. Every free moment, every gap between patrols or work or sleepless nights, he finds himself at your door. Sometimes with a knock, sometimes with the softest little tap that only Lizzie seems to hear before she goes running.

When Lizzie’s school hosts their annual book fair, he’s there early, coffee in hand, wallet already open, insisting she pick out whatever she wants. She ends up with a stack bigger than her backpack can manage, and he carries every single one with a grin that feels embarrassingly proud.

When she asked him to get her a library card, he immediately folded. She’d been begging for weeks, and you had every intention of taking her, but when your schedule collapses under unexpected overtime, Jason shows up at your door with his helmet under one arm and a determined look on his face.

He walks her through the quiet aisles, lets her wander between the shelves, and holds her coat while the librarian takes her picture for the card. When she signs her name on the back in shaky pencil letters, Jason nearly loses it. He tucks the card into a protective sleeve and tells her very seriously that she is now responsible for her own literary adventures.

It takes barely two months for Lizzie to call him “daddy”.

They’re sitting on the couch together, Jason stretched out with his arm resting along the back while Lizzie sits cross-legged beside him, completely absorbed in the washable markers spread across the coffee table. He’d made the mistake of rolling up his sleeves earlier, which apparently meant every tattoo on his arms had become a colouring page waiting to happen.

She’s quiet as she works, tongue poking out in concentration while she shades in the outline of a rose on his bicep. Jason stays still, even holds his breath sometimes when she gets too close to the edge of the line. You’re watching from the kitchen, trying not to laugh at how seriously both of them are taking it.

Lizzie switches markers, grabs a purple one, and leans forward to add a little star next to the rose. She hums under her breath, content, soft, safe. And then, without looking up, without even a flicker of awareness of what she’s saying, she calls out, “Daddy, can you hold still? You’re messing up the colours.”

Jason freezes.

Every muscle in his body goes still, the world around him narrowing to that one small word hanging in the air. Lizzie doesn’t even notice at first, too focused on filling in a petal. It takes her a few seconds to register the silence, to feel him staring. She looks up, marker cap still clenched between her teeth. Jason’s eyes are wide and wet and disbelieving. He doesn’t breathe.

Lizzie blinks once, twice, her face going pink as realization dawns. But before she can panic, before she can apologize or hide or shrink away, Jason’s voice breaks through in a whisper so soft it hardly seems to belong to him. “It’s okay, baby,” he says, hands trembling just a little. “I told you you could call me whatever you’d like.”

Lizzie’s shoulders relax, and after a small, shy nod, she goes right back to colouring his tattoos, this time leaning just a tiny bit closer to him.

“I’m missing the yellow one…” Lizzie mumbles to herself as she hops off the couch. A second later she’s already scampering down the hallway toward her room, determined to hunt down the runaway marker.

You take the chance to sit beside Jason, the cushion dipping between you. You end up closer than you meant to, close enough that the warmth of his arm grazes yours every time one of you breathes. You don’t pull back. “You’re awfully quiet,” you murmur, amusement threading through your voice.

He huffs out a laugh, low and shaken, dragging a hand through his hair before letting his head fall back against the couch. “She… called me dad.” The words sound like he’s still trying to believe them.

Your chest pulls tight in the softest way. You angle yourself toward him, letting your knee brush his. “Yeah. I heard.” There’s a smile tugging at your lips, gentle but unmistakable. “She’s been tiptoeing toward it for a while, you know. She tells my mom all about you. Draws little pictures of the two of you. Brags about how good you are at reading out loud.”

His brows draw together, but not in confusion. It looks more like wonder. Or disbelief softened into hope.

You slide your hand into his, your thumb tracing slow circles across his palm. “She’s loved you for a long time,” you say quietly. “She just… finally said the word out loud.”

Jason’s breath catches. You watch it happen. That quick flicker in his eyes, that guarded part of him cracking just slightly wider than before. He has fought his way through every insecurity he carries, every doubt that tries to latch onto him like a shadow. But hearing it from you makes something in him settle. He doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t need to. His fingers tighten around yours, warm and sure and grateful.

Jason never meant to fall back into this feeling.

He tells himself that a hundred times a day, like it might finally sink in if he repeats it enough. They never officially ended things. There was no argument, no goodbye, no slow drifting apart. Just a coffin. A gravestone. Silence. And then years later a resurrection that didn’t return him to the same life he left, or the same version of himself. Whatever he’d been before — that boy in your polaroids, the one who held your hand on rooftops — he isn’t sure he’s earned the right to be him again.

But being here, in your apartment that hums with warmth and books and the soft chaos of crayons on every surface, it’s like something old and familiar keeps tugging at him. Every time you laugh softly at something your daughter says, every time your hand brushes his by accident, every time you say his name in that voice you used when you loved him… he feels it, sharp and sweet. A bruise touched too gently.

He still loves you. He knows he does. It hits him in quiet ways; when he sees the Pride and Prejudice paperback left open on the arm of the couch, when he watches you adjust Lizzie’s curls with the same tenderness he remembers from late nights in your bedroom, when he hears the faint echo of the way you used to say “Jay” like it was more than a nickname.

But the guilt gets tangled up in it. He died. You mourned him. You built a life from the ashes he left behind, raised a daughter on your own, finished school and worked and grew into someone even stronger than the girl he used to memorize like scripture. He missed all of that. He wasn’t there for the long nights, or the early mornings, or the impossible decisions. You survived without him, and you survived beautifully, and he can’t tell if stepping back into your orbit is selfish or inevitable.

And then there’s Lizzie.

This small, bright miracle with your smile and his eyes, who curls into his side like she’s known him forever and colors yellow stars over the tattoos on his arms. She doesn’t understand the weight he’s carrying. She just sees him. Really sees him. Not the mask, not the past, not the blood on his knuckles, just a man she trusts enough to fall asleep against.

He wants to be exactly what she thinks he is. He wants to be her father without hesitation or fear. And part of him whispers that maybe he could be more than that, that maybe he can have both of you, the life he never knew existed but instantly wanted the second he learned it was real.

But wanting and deserving aren’t the same.

He isn’t sure if you want him in the way he still wants you. He isn’t sure if he’s allowed to think about kissing you again, or tracing the soft curve of your smile, or holding you the way he used to when the world felt too loud. Hell, he isn’t sure if you even see him as anything more than Lizzie’s father now.

Yet every time you look at him, really look at him, he feels that old gravity pull. And he wonders, quietly, painfully, hopefully: Is it possible to fall back in love with someone when you never stopped loving them in the first place?

Bruce always watches. Jason knows it, he feels it like static under the skin every time he steps into the Cave. He keeps patrols efficient, conversations short, never lingering long enough for anyone to corner him. It almost works. Almost.

But tonight, luck runs out.

Patrol ends quietly, Gotham’s humidity sticky and clinging to the inside of the helmet. Jason’s shoulders ache, and he’s already thinking of the fastest route back to his apartment when he lands in the Cave and sees Bruce waiting—not at the computer, not halfway across the room, but ten feet from the landing pad. Arms crossed. Set jaw. Batman, in full form.

Jason’s stomach twists. He tries to walk past him. “Not in the mood, old man.”

Bruce doesn’t move. “Jason.” One word, heavy enough that it halts him mid-stride. “We need to talk.”

Jason huffs a bitter laugh. “Of course we do.” He rips off his helmet, drops it onto the nearest table, refusing to look directly at Bruce. “So what is it? My route? My methods? The fact that I breathe too loudly for your liking?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Too long.

“It’s about Elizabeth.”

Jason freezes.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Feels everything in his chest go tight and sharp at once.

For a second, he almost forgets how to speak. “Not your business,” he mutters finally, moving toward the bikes as if he can outrun the conversation.

Bruce follows. “It is. Whether you want it to be or not. We just… we want to know how you’re doing.”

Jason spins, eyes blazing. “Don’t pretend this is concern. You didn’t even—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking. The anger is too big, too complicated. He doesn’t know where to put it.

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something gentler in his eyes now. “Jason. You’ve been different the past few days. Withdrawn. Distracted on patrol. You’re not sleeping. And every time someone mentions her, you shut down.”

“That’s none of your damn business,” Jason growls.

“It is when it affects your safety,” Bruce answers quietly. “And hers.”

Jason opens his mouth, ready to spit something cruel, but footsteps echo from the stairs and Dick appears, sweaty, exhausted, and carrying the look of a man who’s been listening for longer than he’ll admit.

“Jay,” he says softly, stepping between them. “Don’t do the whole lone wolf routine. Not with this.”

Jason tenses. “I’m not doing a routine. I’m just trying to figure things out.”

Dick gives a humorless little smile. “And how’s that going?”

Jason doesn’t respond.

Tim enters next, tablet in hand, eyes flicking between all three like he’s walked into an active crime scene. “Is this about Lizzie?” he asks before anyone can stop him.

Jason shoots him a look sharp enough to cut. Tim winces. “Okay. I’m… assuming yes.”

Then Damian wanders in behind him, towel around his neck, scowl deep and unforgiving. “If you all insist on having loud emotional crises, perhaps choose a location that isn’t echo-optimized.”

Jason groans. “Great. Fuckin’ family reunion in here.”

Dick crosses his arms and leans against the railing. “We care, Jason. Start dealing with it.”

But Jason isn’t ready. His chest feels too tight, throat too raw. He leans back against the metal of the bike rack, head dropping for a moment as he tries to breathe through the sudden heaviness.

Bruce takes a step closer, slower this time, voice lowering. “Jason. I only want to understand what you’re carrying.”

Jason laughs, but it breaks halfway out. “What I’m carrying? Try everything.” He pushes a hand through his hair, frustrated and overwhelmed. “I died. I came back. I tried to pick up the pieces, but they weren’t even the same pieces anymore. And now…” He swallows, eyes unfocusing for a moment. “Now there’s this kid. My kid. And she’s perfect. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

No one interrupts.

Jason exhales shakily. “Every time she looks at me, something in me just… stops. I didn’t know I could feel that again. But it’s been years. Years, Bruce.” His voice softens, almost cracks. He’s not talking about Lizzie anymore. “I don’t even know who I am to her yet.”

Tim chews the inside of his cheek, hesitant but thoughtful. “You don’t have to have everything mapped out. Kids don’t need you to be perfect. They just need you to show up.”

Damian crosses his arms, chin high. “Todd has been showing up. Quite consistently. The child clearly adores him. His location is always at their home.”

Jason stares at him. “That’s your metric for good parenting?”

“It is a valid data point,” Damian replies flatly.

Dick snorts. “Somehow, that might be the most heartfelt thing you’ve ever said.”

Damian scowls. “Do not interpret my words as sentiment.”

Jason shakes his head and lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. For a moment, the tension loosens. But Bruce isn’t done.

“There’s something else,” he says quietly. “You’ve been holding back. Something you haven’t said.”

Jason stiffens. “No.”

Dick steps forward. “Jay.”

Jason glares. “Don’t.”

Dick’s voice softens in a way that disarms Jason’s defenses too quickly for comfort. “You’re still in love with her.”

The words echo through the cave. Tim looks down at his tablet, suddenly very invested in pretending it doesn’t exist. Damian’s eyebrows shoot up. Bruce remains still, watching everything.

Jason freezes, every muscle locking tight. Something like panic flickers behind his eyes before he snaps, “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Dick replies, gentle but firm. “We knew.”

Jason looks away sharply. “It’s been years. Things are different.”

“But your feelings aren’t.”

Jason clenches his jaw, the truth sitting too close to the surface. “I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know if it’s love or guilt or nostalgia or some twisted memory of what we used to be.” His voice drops. “I don’t know if she wants me there, or if I’m just forcing my way into a life she already built without me.”

Bruce finally speaks again, patient and steady. “You’re not forcing anything. She invited you in.”

Jason swallows hard.

Dick steps closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Jay… she let you into her home. She trusted you with Lizzie. She looks at you like she’s been holding her breath for six years.”

Jason presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, overwhelmed. “I don’t want to ruin anything. Not her life. Not Lizzie’s. I don’t want to be one more unstable thing they have to adjust to.”

Tim finally looks up. “You being in her life isn’t instability. It’s healing.”

Damian nods, though begrudgingly. “The child thrives with you around. She is happier. That is an objective fact.”

Jason breathes in slowly, then out. Something shifts in his face—fear, longing, hope, all tangled together.

Bruce places a gloved hand on his shoulder, grounding and firm. “Whatever you choose, you won’t face it alone.”

Jason looks around at them, his family, broken and messy and loud and intrusive, but still family. The people who found out he had a daughter and didn’t hesitate for a moment before standing beside him. The people who, despite everything, never let him collapse without catching him first.

His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “I… care about her. Both of them. More than I know what to do with.”

Dick smiles softly. “Then start there.”

Jason breathes out, tension slowly unknotting from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Maybe I can.”

Lizzie falls asleep early. She curls up on the couch beside Jason with a book still half open on her lap, her cheek pressed against his arm, her breathing soft and even. You scoop her up gently and take her to bed, pausing at the doorway to look back at him with an expression he cannot name. Then you disappear down the hall.

Now the apartment is quiet. The record player hums somewhere in the background, something low and warm, a song that does not demand attention. Jason sits on the couch alone for a long moment, his hands open and useless on his knees, his mind louder than the room.

You return with two mugs of tea, setting one on the table near him and keeping your own cupped between your palms. You sit at the far end of the couch first, as if giving him space, but his silence draws you closer, inch by inch, until you are only a breath away.

Jason can feel your presence like heat along his skin. He stares ahead for a while, jaw tight, trying to pick the right words out of the mess inside him. None arrive. Only the pounding in his chest. Only the knowledge that something has to be said or it will tear him open.

You shift slightly. Your voice is soft when you speak, as though afraid of breaking whatever delicate thing hangs between you. “You’re quiet tonight.”

He lets out a faint laugh. It sounds nothing like a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

“Is it about Lizzie?”

His head drops. “Partly.”

You wait, patient the way you always are with him.

Jason runs a hand over his face, grounding himself. “She is everything I ever wanted and everything I am terrified of at the same time. I look at her and I feel like there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for her. Nothing I wouldn’t give. And that scares the hell out of me. Because I missed so much. Because I didn’t get to protect either of you when I should have.” His throat tightens. “And because I want to make up for all of it, but I don’t know how.”

You set your mug down slowly. “Jason… you’re doing more than you think. She loves you. She feels safe with you. That’s not something you can fake.”

“I know. I know.” His eyes squeeze shut, followed by a slow exhale that trembles at the end. “But that’s not everything on my mind.”

Your hand comes to rest on his. “Then tell me.”

He turns toward you, finally meeting your eyes. The exhaustion is there, but so is something fierce and frightened and hopeful.

“I never stopped loving you.” The words fall out quietly but heavily, like something that has been waiting years to finally escape. “Not once.”

Your breath catches. He sees it. He feels your fingers tense just a little against his.

Jason looks away, unable to withstand the weight of your gaze. “I know it’s complicated. I know life didn’t pause when I died. I know you had to keep going. I know you had to survive and raise our daughter and make a life without me. I would never blame you for any of that. I just… I come back and I still feel the same. And it confuses the shit out of me because I’m not supposed to. Because I keep thinking maybe it’s nostalgia or grief or the pit messing with my head. But then I see you again and it all comes back exactly the same as it was before and stronger than I know what to do with.”

You say nothing, your expression unreadable.

He drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Sometimes I think it’s wrong for me to feel like this. Like I’m asking too much. Like I shouldn’t want anything more than being a dad. And I would never push for anything you don’t want. I swear. You and Lizzie, you’re both the most important people in my life now. I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want to make things harder for you. I just… I need you to know. Because I feel like I’m bursting at the seams with it.”

Silence fills the room again, not uncomfortable but heavy with meaning.

You shift, folding one leg under yourself, turning your whole body toward him. “Jason.” His name comes out softer than he’s ever heard it from you. “Look at me.”

He does. Slowly. Carefully.

Your eyes glisten faintly, though you’re not crying. “You didn’t ask too much. You didn’t cross a line. You didn’t ruin anything. I think…” You swallow. “I think I’ve been afraid to admit how much of me is still tangled up in you. And losing you broke something I didn’t think would ever come back. Then I found out I was pregnant and it felt like the world flipped upside down again. I had to grow up overnight. I had to make choices I never thought I’d make at sixteen. And I tried so hard to bury the feelings I still had for you because loving someone who was gone hurt too much. But seeing you again brings all of it back. Every moment. Every memory.”

Jason’s breath goes shallow.

You reach up, brushing your fingers against his cheek with painful gentleness. “I never stopped loving you either. But I didn’t think I was allowed to anymore. And now you’re here and we’re older and life has changed in a thousand ways. And I’m scared too.”

He freezes at your touch, unsure if he’s imagining the warmth of your hand.

“Scared of what?” he whispers.

“Scared that loving you again means losing you again.”

Jason’s heart splits in two at the quiet truth in your voice. He covers your hand with his own, holding it to his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere this time.” His voice trembles. “If you let me stay.”

You lean forward enough that your foreheads nearly touch. “I’m not ready to jump into something blindly. Not with everything that’s happened. Not with Lizzie in the picture. She comes first.”

“I know,” he says. “And she should. Everything I want now revolves around her anyway.”

“But…” You pause, searching his eyes. “I’m not shutting the door.”

Jason feels something inside him crumble and rebuild itself all at once. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “But we take this slow. For her. For us.”

He nods, relief flooding through him so intensely he has to close his eyes for a moment. “Slow is fine. Slow is good.”

When he opens them again, you’re still there, still close, still holding his face in your hands.

You don’t know who moves first.

One second you’re both sitting there, the quiet of the living room wrapped around you like a held breath, and the next Jason’s cupping your face gently but firmly, as if he’s finally stopped running from the gravity pulling him in your direction. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft at first. Careful. Testing. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.

But you kiss him back.

That’s all it takes.

His breath catches like he’s been punched, his hand sliding along your jaw, the other finding the small of your back and pulling you closer without hesitation. The second kiss is deeper, warmer, as if years of wanting and wondering finally crack open inside him. Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt before you even think about it. Jason makes a low sound in his throat at the contact, something almost relieved, and the world tilts when he tugs you gently onto his lap.

You settle there, legs bracketing his hips, your chest pressed to his, his hands holding you like he’s memorizing every inch he lost. His heartbeat is fast against your own, matching, rising, syncing. His mouth trails from your lips to your cheek, then back again, messier this time, hungrier. You kiss him like it’s breathing, like falling back into a dream you used to live in.

When he pulls back for air, barely an inch, his forehead rests against yours. His voice is low, rough in a way that shoots warmth down your spine. “Been wanting this for so goddamn long,” he murmurs, hands squeezing at your waist before slipping up your back. “Didn’t know if I’d ever…”

His words fade because you’re kissing him again, slow and certain. He answers immediately, mouth molding to yours like he remembers every piece of you and has been waiting to relearn the rest. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging lightly. He inhales sharply, his grip tightening around your hips as he pulls you closer still. The warmth between you builds, the room suddenly feeling too small to hold everything he’s giving you, everything that’s been pressed down for years.

You break away just long enough to breathe, and he leans in again like he can’t help himself, kissing along your jaw and down your neck, lips brushing your skin in soft, lingering presses that make your breath stutter. “Jason,” you whisper, and the way he reacts — like the sound of his name in your voice is something holy — makes your whole body go warm.

He holds you tighter, almost lifting you instinctively with the motion. When you meet his eyes again, they’re darker now, but still so heartbreakingly soft. “Come here,” he murmurs.

He stands easily, hands keeping you close, one arm beneath your thighs and the other around your back as he lifts you off his lap in one smooth, practiced motion. You gasp softly, arms circling his shoulders. Your nose brushes his cheek as he carries you, and you feel the quiet laugh he lets out against your temple, warm and breathless.

The lights in the hallway are dim as he walks, his fingers spreading against your hip like he’s anchoring himself. You press a kiss to the corner of his jaw and Jason stops walking for half a second, eyes closing, breath shuddering through him.

“Keep doing that,” he murmurs, and you swear his voice alone could pull you under.

You kiss him again, just beneath his ear, and he exhales sharply, adjusting you in his arms before nudging open your bedroom door with his foot.

He steps inside slowly, carefully, as though this moment deserves reverence, as though crossing into this room changes something permanent between you.

Maybe it does.

He sets you onto the bed with a tenderness that steals your breath, his hands lingering at your waist as he leans down to kiss you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you grip at the front of his shirt just to keep yourself steady. Jason smiles against your lips, just barely, a soft curve you can feel more than see. Then he kisses you again and again, like he’s making up for every year you both lost, every moment he never thought he would get back.

His kisses trail from your lips, soft and unhurried, mapping the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a promise, warm and insistent, drawing a quiet sigh from deep in your chest. Jason's hands slide up your sides, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, pausing there as if asking permission. You nod against him, your own hands tugging at his shirt in response, needing to feel his warm skin under your palms.

He pulls back just enough to lift your shirt over your head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. The fabric whispers away, and then his shirt follows, discarded to the floor. His chest is broader now, marked by scars you haven't fully explored yet, but tonight isn't about questions. It's about reconnection, about the heat building between you like a fire long tamed but never extinguished.

Jason's gaze drops to your bra, and he reaches behind you with careful fingers, unhooking it. The straps slip down your shoulders, and he helps ease it off, his breath catching as your breasts are bared to him. “Fuck, you're beautiful,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. His hands cup you gently, thumbs circling your nipples until they harden under his touch. You arch into him, a soft moan escaping as he leans down to take one peak into his mouth.

His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, warm and wet, sucking lightly before switching to the other side. The sensation sends sparks through your body, pooling low in your belly. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close, reveling in the way he worships you, like you're something sacred he's been denied for too long. He murmurs against your skin, words lost in the haze, but the vibration hums through you, making your thighs press together instinctively.

Slowly, he kisses his way down your sternum, over the soft plane of your stomach, his hands working at the button of your jeans. You lift your hips to help him slide them off, along with your panties, leaving you exposed on the bed. Jason pauses, kneeling between your legs, his eyes drinking you in. The reverence in his stare makes you flush, but there's no shyness here, only trust built over years and now renewed.

He parts your thighs with gentle hands, settling between them. His breath ghosts over your folds, warm and teasing, before he leans in. The first touch of his tongue is feather-light, tracing the length of your slit from bottom to top. You gasp, hips twitching upward, and he steadies you with a palm on your abdomen. “I've got you, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled against you as he licks again, slower this time, savoring.

Jason's mouth moves with deliberate care, his tongue circling your clit in careful spirals that build pressure steadily. He sucks gently, drawing the nub between his lips, and your fingers tighten in his hair. Pleasure coils tight inside you, waves of it radiating from where his mouth works you over. He slides one finger along your entrance, pressing in just enough to feel your wetness coat him, then deeper, curling to stroke that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

You quietly moan his name, the sound soft and needy, and he responds by adding a second finger, thrusting them in a rhythm that matches the flicks of his tongue. His free hand grips your thigh, holding you open as he devours you, lapping at your pussy like he's starving for the taste. The tenderness in his actions — the way he watches your reactions, adjusting his pace to what makes you tremble — makes it all the more intense. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not from pain but from the overwhelming flood of pleasure mixed with emotion, the joy of having him here, alive and loving you this way.

Your body tenses, the edge approaching fast under his skilled attention. Jason senses it, humming against your clit, the vibration pushing you closer. “Let go for me,” he breathes, words hot against your skin. “Please.” His fingers pump steadily, tongue pressing flat and firm, and you shatter. The orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around his fingers as you try your best not to cry out, hips bucking against his mouth. He doesn't stop, licking you through it softly, prolonging the bliss until you're boneless, panting on the sheets.

He rises then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with desire but softened by affection. You reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. It's salty and intimate, and you deepen it, hands roaming over his back, feeling the muscles shift under your touch. Jason groans into your mouth, his erection pressing hard against your thigh through his pants.

“Too much clothes,” you murmur against him, fumbling with his belt. He chuckles, low and warm, helping you undo it. His jeans and boxers slide down, freeing his cock, thick and heavy, tip already glistening with pre-cum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling him throb in your grip. Jason hisses, head dropping to your shoulder, but he stills your hand gently. “Not now… wanna be inside you.”

He positions himself between your legs again, but this time it's different. His demeanour’s much more nervous, yet still laced with that careful reverence. The head of his cock nudges at your entrance, slick from your release, and he pushes in slowly, inch by inch. You both gasp at the stretch, the fullness of him filling you after so long apart. He's hot and hard, pulsing inside you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

Jason bottoms out with a shuddering breath, stilling to let you adjust. His forehead rests against yours, eyes squeezed shut as if committing this to memory. “I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly. “So much.” You cup his face, kissing him softly. “I love you too. Move, Jay. Please.”

He does, pulling back almost all the way before sliding in again, deep and measured. Each thrust is tender, his hips rolling to hit just the right angle, grinding against your clit with every push. You meet him halfway, bodies syncing in a rhythm that's both familiar and new, like coming home after a long journey. His hands brace on either side of you, but one slips down to lace fingers with yours, squeezing as he moves.

The pace builds gradually, his breaths coming faster, mingling with faint moans. Sweat beads on his skin, and you trace the lines of his scars with your free hand, grounding yourself in his reality. He's here, solid and warm, fucking you with a sweetness that borders on worship. Pleasure rebuilds inside you, coiling tighter with each slide of his cock along your walls, the friction sparking heat everywhere he touches.

Jason shifts, angling his hips to go deeper, and you cry out, nails digging into his back. He kisses your neck, your collarbone, murmuring praises between thrusts, how good you feel, how perfect, how he's never letting go again. The words weave through the haze of sensation, pushing you toward the brink once more. Your pussy flutters around him, and he groans, pace faltering just a bit as he fights to hold on.

“Come with me,” you whisper, clinging to him. He nods, burying his face in your hair, thrusts turning erratic but still gentle, chasing that peak together. The tension snaps, your orgasm ripping through you, walls clamping down on his cock. Jason follows seconds later, a soft whimper escaping as he spills inside you, hot pulses filling you up. He rocks through it, drawing out your pleasure until you're both spent, trembling in each other's arms.

He doesn't pull out right away, staying buried deep as your heartbeats slow. His weight is a comforting press, and you stroke his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths. Eventually, he eases out, a soft wet sound accompanying the loss, and rolls to the side, pulling you against his chest. You nestle there, leg draped over his, the stickiness between your thighs a reminder of what you've shared.

Jason presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your hip. “Fuck, that— that was... everything,” he says quietly, voice thick with unshed tears. You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze, eyes shiny, but smiling.

He lingers inside you for a moment longer, his body a warm, solid weight that grounds you both in the afterglow. When he finally eases out, the slow drag of his softening cock leaves you feeling empty, a trickle of his cum seeping from your pussy onto the sheets. He notices immediately, his eyes flicking down with a mix of concern and affection. “Let me take care of you,” he says softly, voice husky from exertion. Before you can protest, he's shifting off the bed, his naked form moving without the invisible weight he usually holds.

He disappears into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water filtering through the door. You lie there, catching your breath, your body humming with satisfaction. The room smells of sex, thick and intimate, your thighs are sticky, a reminder of how thoroughly he claimed you. Jason returns with a warm, damp cloth in hand, kneeling beside the bed. His touch is feather-light as he parts your legs again, wiping away the evidence of your joining with careful strokes. The cloth glides over your sensitive folds, soothing the slight ache, and you sigh at the gentleness, your hand reaching out to trace his arm.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmur, watching as he cleans every trace, his focus unwavering. He looks up, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there's a vulnerability in his eyes, like he's still convincing himself this is real. “I want to be. After everything... I need to.” He discards the cloth and leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, just above where he tended you. The gesture is chaste now, but it sends a shiver through you anyway.

Satisfied, he stands and offers his hand. “Clean up with me?” His tone is tentative, as if he's half-expecting you to say no, but you take his hand without hesitation, letting him pull you up. Your legs wobble slightly, muscles lax from pleasure, and he steadies you with an arm around your waist, chuckling softly. “Easy, sweetheart. I've got you.”

The bathroom light is soft, casting a golden hue over the tiles as he leads you inside. Steam already fogs the mirror from the running water, and he adjusts the temperature with practiced ease before guiding you under the spray. The hot water cascades over your skin, rinsing away the sweat and remnants of your lovemaking. Jason steps in behind you, his chest pressing to your back, arms encircling your waist. You lean into him, tilting your head back against his shoulder as the water soothes your flushed body.

He reaches for the body wash, squirting some into his palm before lathering it between his hands. His fingers start at your shoulders, massaging the suds into your skin with firm but gentle pressure, working out the tension you didn't even realize was there. You close your eyes, humming in contentment as his hands glide down your arms, then back up to your neck, thumbs circling the base of your skull. It's intimate, this care, more than just washing; it's him relearning every curve, every inch he's missed.

“Turn around,” he whispers, and you do, facing him under the stream. Water beads on his lashes, darkening his hair as it plasters to his forehead. His scars glisten, faint lines across his torso that tell stories you ache to hear, but not now. Not when his hands are on you, soaping your breasts, palms cupping them with reverence. He doesn't linger erotically this time; instead, he washes you like a cherished possession, fingers tracing the undersides before moving to your stomach.

You take the bottle from him, returning the favor. Your hands spread the foam over his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. He inhales sharply as you skim over his nipples, but it's not arousal — it's the simple joy of touch, of being seen and tended to. You move lower, washing his abdomen, the V of his hips, careful around his cock, which hangs soft and spent between his legs. He watches you, breath steady, one hand on your hip to keep you close.

The water rinses you both clean, and for a while, you just stand there, foreheads touching, letting the spray envelop you. Jason's fingers comb through your wet hair, untangling it gently, and you rise on your toes to kiss him, a slow, lazy press of lips that speaks of comfort more than passion. “Could stay like this forever,” he says against your mouth, voice barely audible over the water.

Eventually, he shuts off the faucet, the sudden quiet amplifying the drip of water from your bodies. He grabs a towel, wrapping it around you first, rubbing your arms and back until you're dry enough. Then he dries himself quickly, ever the protector, before leading you back to the bedroom. The sheets are cool now, and he pulls back the covers, urging you into bed. You slide under, the fabric soft against your clean skin, and he follows, molding his body to yours from behind.

The room’s silent in the way that only comes after everything is said and everything is felt. The soft glow of the bedside lamp paints your skin in warm gold, and Jason lies half-beneath you, one arm tucked around your waist, the other sprawled above his head as his breathing finally slows again. His heartbeat is still a little fast under your cheek, steadying slowly, like he’s relearning what calm feels like.

Neither of you speak at first. It’s the comfortable kind of silence, thick and full but not heavy.Then Jason turns his head, lips brushing your hair as he murmurs, “I… have to ask you something.”

You lift your head a little, resting your chin on his chest. He looks almost shy. Jason Todd. Shy. It still makes something warm bloom inside you. “What’s up?” you whisper.

He swallows, eyes flicking away for a second before finding yours again. “Do you… do you think we could ever be, like, a real family?”

Your breath catches, the question sinking straight through you. Not because it surprises you, but because it feels like something you’ve secretly wanted him to ask. Something you’ve been holding under your tongue for weeks, maybe longer. Jason’s thumb brushes your hip, slow and worried, as if he’s bracing himself for disappointment.

“I mean,” he continues, voice low, “I know everything’s messy. And I know I came back with… a lot of shit. I know it’s been years and I missed everything and I’m still trying to figure out who the hell I’m supposed to be. But when I look at you and Lizzie…” His voice cracks just barely. “It feels like something I don’t want to lose. Not again. Not ever.”

Your chest tightens, emotion rising so fast it almost steals your breath. You lift a hand, cupping his face gently, brushing your thumb across the faint stubble on his jaw. “I can see it,” you say softly. “I think so, eventually.”

His eyes widen, something bright and relieved flickering in them. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You’re already a part of her life. And mine. You fit here. With us. I think you always have.”

He pulls in a shaky breath, like the words are physically settling inside him. Like he’s letting himself believe it for the first time.

“And if you want that,” you add quietly, “then yes. I see a future with you. I want it.”

Jason closes his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening with the kind of emotion he never lets anyone see. When he opens them, he pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest with a tenderness that borders on reverent.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. “God, thank you.”

You smile against his skin, your arm curling over his stomach as your legs tangle with his under the blankets. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining without hesitation.

He presses a slow kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, softer this time. You shift slightly, settling fully onto him, your weight warm and grounding.

“Get some sleep,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes drift shut, your breathing syncing with his. Jason rubs slow circles into your back, and his voice is the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under.

“I love you. Both of you.”

You don’t need to answer out loud. Your fingers tighten around his, and he understands.

Jason Todd finally has a home.