˗`ˏ Is a mess ˎˊ˗

"You'll live." You smacked your lips, held his face in place and started peppering it with kisses. A wide smile found home on Jason's face, enjoying the attention. The concept of his face being ambushed like this was not foreign to him at all. Whenever you'd see him look at home and comfortable, you'd literally pounce on him.  When he's lying under the blankets in winter, his hoodie cocooning his face. Boom your on him. He's cooking something, his brows furrowed in concentration. Boom your on him. He could be doing the most mundane things, like watching a movie with you. BOOM your on him again. He never knows when it's coming, but he knows it's inevitable. So it's safe to say he has taken a liking to being handled like this by you. Hell, he loves it even. When you're done painting him red. You pull back to observe your masterpiece. "Hmm you look nice..Wanna see?" You say grabbing ur phone and snapping multiple pictures. Jason was smiling like an idiot, content to just be there. Just being yours like this. You turned your phone to show him how he looked. "I personally think I should do this more often" you said proud of your craft. “That so?” His brows lifted lazily, fingers tightening on your hips as he kissed you again. Today was a good day.

"GUYS." Stephanie's voice cut through the coms, "Nobody leaves directly after patrol tonight. I have something to show all of you." Just by Steph's tone, everyone guessed this was going to be entertaining. A string of 'you got it', 'yep' and 'what for?' followed. Cut to the infamous Batcave. All of them had busied themselves. Damian was polishing his katana, Tim was arranging case files, dick on the worn-out couch scrolling on his phone, Cassandra was in the training area and Jason leaned against one of the support beams, eating popcorn. The only person they were waiting on was Bruce. And all of them were getting impatient because Stephanie was too giddy and bouncy for their liking.

“Can you relax?” Jason finally asked. “You’re pacing like you planted explosives somewhere.” to which Stephanie scoffed with a smirk "Oh! Talk all you want Todd...for now."

Before Jason could even ask what she meant by that, Dick suddenly groaned dramatically from across the cave. “Well, we waited for nothing. Bruce is flying to Tokyo.”

Tim’s head snapped up instantly. “Why would he text you that and not me?” Already offended, he pulled out his phone only for it to be snatched by Stephanie. "Not right now drake" “Everybody. Huddle up. Now.” She said a bounce in her step as she made her way to her phone.

"I'm about to show you. The cutest thing you've seen in a minute." She turned the phone around to show the video you had posted earlier that day.  Jason felt his ears get warm actively. The screen shook slightly as you tried to fix ur lipstick yourself only for Jason’s hand to enter frame, big fingers tilting your chin up with absurd gentleness.Then came the worst part. Jason’s face. Not the bruised-up, helmet-wearing crime lord terror one Gotham knew. No. This was domestic Jason. Soft Jason. The Jason who looked at you like you’d personally invented sunlight.

Covered in red. God he looked so whipped. Pin drop silence through the cave. The first to react was Damian, springing off his seat to get a closer look "Is that Todd?!" and Stephanie nodded, squealing, "Aren't they so fucking cute!!" Before Damian could give his insight, Jason cut in, "What the fuck, Steph! How'd you even get the video??" Dick chimed in, "No better question. Since when do you have a girlfriend and why does it look like only I didn't know about her!" tim piped up "I didn't know either!" Damian nodded as well, "Why would you not tell us?" "Just because! That's not the point right now. The point is that Steph is hacking into my girlfriend's account to get at me!" Jason said, standing up and taking the stage, "Wow, chill, I'm not hacking into anything, damn. Is it that hard to believe I'm mutuals with her?" Jason scoffed as if that had personally offended him, "no ur not." She just gave him a flat look. "...you are." He says, dropping back to his seat. Dick asked the necessary question, "How do ya know her, Steph?" Stephanie shrugged casually "We've been volunteering for the same animal rights NGO for the past month and became friends. Then I see him pick her up one day and well..." Jason ran a hand over his face. "I think it's very sweet." Cassandra spoke up, "You both look good together." Considering Cassandra rarely ever spoke, the atmosphere had quieted down to listen to her properly "Thanks cass. You're sweet. Maybe teach that to these assholes." Jason replied bringing the tension back in."We haven't made fun of you even once. Why the fuck are we assholes?" Tim asked annoyed.

"Because you were thinking it,” Jason shot back immediately, pointing accusingly at all of them like a man defending himself in court with nothing but wounded pride and vibes. "I can feel it in the air. Every single one of you is gearing up to make fun of me."

They exchanged looks.

“Can we replay the video?” Dick asked hopefully, already halfway off the couch and reaching for Stephanie’s phone.

Jason looked horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Too late.

Stephanie had already restarted it.

Dick clutched his chest dramatically. “My Littlewing grew up so fast.” Jason groaned, “I hate all of you.”

“You look like you’re about to serenade her.” Tim added.

“They look married,” Stephanie corrected. And god help him. Jason just hopes he was only feeling warm and not looking the part. Damian, meanwhile, was staring at the phone with narrowed eyes like he’d just witnessed cryptid footage. “That cannot be Todd.” Jason scoffed. Cassandra tilted her head slightly, watching the paused frame. “You look calm.” The words actually made Jason pause for half a second. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? He was calm around you.

Then Dick ruined the moment instantly.

“Wait, wait, pause when he's in frame!”

“DON’T.” Dick gasped, “Oh my God. He’s got the eyes.” Jason crossed his arms stubbornly. “You guys are overreacting.”

“Are not” Damian said immediately.

“You called me emotionally constipated three days ago!” 

“You are. This is simply...unexpected character development.”

Tim leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Honestly, I thought your version of romance was just threatening people slightly softer.” To which Tim received a 'what-the-fuck-dude' look Jason groaned and leaned back against the beam again like a man moments away from faking his own death. Unfortunately for him, the hyenas smelled weakness. Tim held a hand out toward Stephanie. “Lemme see the account.”

“No,” Jason warned immediately.

“Too late,” Stephanie chirped, tossing Tim the phone.

Jason lunged. Cassandra smoothly stuck a foot out. Jason stumbled mid-step while Tim escaped with the phone like a victorious raccoon stealing bread. “Traitor. You're supposed to be on my team.” Jason accused. Cass only blinked innocently.

Tim scrolled for exactly five seconds before letting out a low whistle. “Damn.” Jason narrowed his eyes. “Drake.”

“You’re in every other post”

“Drake.”

“There’s one where you’re asleep.”

“TIMOTHY.”

Dick perked up instantly. “THERES A SLEEPING JASON TODD PHOTO?!” Jason started moving again, but Damian intercepted him this time, grabbing the back of his jacket with deeply unnecessary force.

“You will sit,” Damian ordered.

“What are you, twelve or a Bond villain?”

“Yes.”

Dick had now migrated from the couch and was fully invading Tim’s personal space to look at the phone too. “OHHH this one!” A photo from the funhouse where the mirror had made jason look stretched and small (honouring fatson todd here.) Stephanie grinned,  “Read the caption.” Tim chuckled, "He's 2 apples tall.” Everyone broke out laughing.   Jason looked like he was entering cardiac arrest. 

Tim spoke up, "Dude, we have proof Jason isn't  just a big tough GUY!" 

Damian, however, was still staring at Jason. “You let her post this?” Jason frowned. “I'm no one to tell her what she can and can't post?” Another question “She openly displays affection for you in front of strangers.” Jason answered warily, "...yeah?” “And you permit this.”

Jason blinked slowly. “Do you think she’s my hostage? I love her. She's her own woman.”

Damian nodded in deep thought.

Dick slung an arm around Jason’s shoulders before he could escape again. “Face it, little wing. You’re down catastrophically.” Jason immediately tried shrugging him off. “Get off me.” “Nope. I’m embracing this growth.”

“This isn’t growth.”

“You smiled.”

“I smile.”

Dick’s expression softened instantly beneath all the teasing as he got off jason “You really love her, huh?”

The cave quieted again. No jokes this time. Jason looked away first. Which was answer enough already. But then he muttered, quieter this time:

“More than anything.” The words settled through the cave strangely gently.

Then naturally.

“Anyway when’s the wedding?”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ a/n: First Jason fic! I hope this wasn't too stretched! Do you guys like it?

❥𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽!!

Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.

If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume. 

And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.

He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.

“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.

Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.

“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”

“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.

“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”

The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.

“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”

His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.

Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”

Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.

“Yeah, that’s real mature.”

“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”

“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”

“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”

“Well, I wasn’t!”

“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”

Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red. 

“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”

Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”

The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet. 

“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”

You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before. 

“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”

“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”

“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”

“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”

“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”

Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special. 

But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.

“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”

“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”

“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”

It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you. 

“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”

“Katsuki—”

“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.

“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.”

“I was angry—”

“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”

Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.

“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”

“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”

“That’s not—”

“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”

He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”

His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”

“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”

Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

────────────────────────

Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly. 

“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”

Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”

“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”

“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”

“Well, she’s mean.”

“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused. 

No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.

“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.

“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”

Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.

“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”

The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”

Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”

“Yes.”

“She’s funny?”

“Very.”

“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.

Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”

“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”

“Exactly.”

“And she says it loud.”

“That’s true.”

“She says it really loud, Dad.”

Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”

“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little. 

“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”

“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”

Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head. 

His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.

His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.

“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.

Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”

“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!

“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”

Katsuki deflates on the spot. 

More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.

His mother, however, has no such excuse.

“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.

“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”

“Then why does she like you?”

Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”

His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”

“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.

“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”

That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.

“I think you will, son.”

“I definitely won’t.”

Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.

He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.

“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”

“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”

────────────────────────

Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.

You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.

He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.

You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you. 

Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.

He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.

The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.

He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.

The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.

But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.

By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.

Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.

His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.

By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.

The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it. 

“Shit—”

The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it. 

Then everything goes dark.

────────────────────────

It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.

Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.

The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you. 

“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”

The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.

“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”

At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.

Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry Kiri <3: Keep me updated?

You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u You: Thank you and pls be safe You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out

Kiri <3: Take it easy okay? Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright

——

Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.

Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.

“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”

The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”

You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.

When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”

You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.

“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”

You’re already moving.

By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?

You aren’t sure.

You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.

But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.

You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.

He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.

“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”

He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”

You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes. 

You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.

“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”

“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”

“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”

“Listen—”

“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.

His eyes soften. “I know, but—”

“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”

You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.

“I love you too—”

“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”

His expression tightens. “That’s not—”

“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”

“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”

You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”

“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”

“But—”

“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”

A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”

“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”

He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.

After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”

────────────────────────

Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.

It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”

His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.

“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”

“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.

“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”

Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”

There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.

“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.

“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”

He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”

“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”

“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”

“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.

His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”

The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”

Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Will my son be paying?”

Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”

“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”

Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”

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

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

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you even thinking right now?

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

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

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

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

So, he finds this funny, huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what would that be?”

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

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

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

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

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

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

“You worried, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

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

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

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

He does have big hands, though.

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

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

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

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

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

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

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

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

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

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

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

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

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

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

+++

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

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

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, what are you doing?

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

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Marjorie, what is that?”

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

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

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

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

As if she’s the one restocking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He already saw you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who even says that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

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

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

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

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

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

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

Two can play that game.

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

“Like what?”

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

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

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

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

“So you have noticed.”

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

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

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

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

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

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

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

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

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

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

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

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

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

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

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

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

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

“What’s this say?”

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

You look up. “What?”

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

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

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

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

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

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

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

“Good.”

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

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

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

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

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

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

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

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

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

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

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

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

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

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

His hands are shaking.

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

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

“That everything?” you ask.

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

“Sir?”

He looks up.

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

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

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

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

“Sir? Your change.”

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

Then he walks to the door.

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

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

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

He turns around.

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

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

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

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

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

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

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

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

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

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

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

“I said call her.”

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

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

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

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

The lighter.

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

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

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

Hood goes very still.

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

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

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

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

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

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

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

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

And, you’re in it.

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

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

— Marj.

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

Fuck.

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

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

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

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

The window.

There’s something at the window.

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

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

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

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

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

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

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

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

“I know,” he says.

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

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

“You what?”

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

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

“I’m not dead,” you say.

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

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

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

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

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

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

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

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

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

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

“Three hours?”

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

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

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

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

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

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

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

“Four hours,” he repeats.

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

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

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

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

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

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

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

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

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

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

“It's not that you weren’t nice about it, it’s just—” sighing, you finish packing a second lunch box for Oliver, already agreeing to Jason’s plea before even saying yes to him. “—I literally just watched him yesterday. I have a life too, you know.”

“You do?” You hear a pained groan on the other side as Jason huffs into the phone. He’s definitely out fighting crime again. “When was the last time you went on a date again?”

“Don’t remind me, asshole.” Rolling your eyes, you have a feeling that Jason could sense your sass through the phone, he has a sixth sense when it comes to your attitude.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“How’d you—?” You twist around as if there is a hidden camera around your apartment. “Can you please just fucking beat the guy, you breathing on the phone is annoying me.” On the contrary, you feel your cheeks warm just from the familiar sound.

“What, I can’t even breathe?”

“Oi, what the fuck, lady!” A stranger’s voice adds amidst the sound of a metallic clang.

“Am I on speaker?”

“So demanding as always.” You could just tell that he said that with a smirk. With the muffled sound of fist hitting skin, you finish packing. Waiting for Jason to answer, you grab the bags and head outside. The key fob clicks with a beep as you get inside your car. “You little shit.” Heaving, Jason returns to the call a minute later. “You’re already in your car aren’t you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Placing the phone on the dashboard, you stifle a chuckle. “That depends if you’ll pay me my regular fee.”

“Please, you like watching Ollie.”

“I do, but times are tough and I gotta pay bills too, ‘Mr. I have a billionaire for a dad.’ My regular nine to five isn’t cutting it much anymore.”

His soft chuckle has you grinning to yourself like a madwoman. Cheeks aflame, and hands suddenly clammy, even after all these years he still has that effect on you as if you’re a school girl having a crush.

“Fine, I never skimp out on your fees, I’m not going to start now.” His boots thump on the ground, “And you wouldn’t be having that problem if you agreed to stay with us.”

“And have your son question the nature of our relationship again?” Starting the car, you head out of the driveway towards the familiar road to Jason’s apartment that you have driven a thousand times before that you could practically drive there with your eyes closed.

“It’s not my fault that he could sense the tension.” There’s keyboard clacking on his end, as Jason puts the phone in between his shoulder and cheek that you could tell from the rustle of clothing. “He’s a smart kid, and smart kids see through everything.”

“If that’s you saying that our friends with benefits situation needs evaluating then tell that to yourself.” You say with a clear bite to your tone, knowing that you have tried several times to be more than his friend, not just to occasionally warm his bed. “You’re just making Ollie confused.” Your tone falls as you hear him shift on the other end.

He stops typing for a moment, a chill running in between the two of you as if he sits beside you in the car. There have been conversations about the exact same subject, and Jason would almost always segue out of it, or wave the topic away casually. Recently though, the tension is running higher than ever, you’ve been staying at their place more frequently, longer even.

You have a space in his closet where you always have fresh spare clothes tucked inside, your clothes smell like the citrus fabric conditioner he uses because Ollie can’t stand the smell of lavender. You have your own toothbrush in his bathroom, your own loofah, a bathrobe that he bought in your favorite color on a random day because you were complaining of using his towels. You even have an extra pair of shoes, your own mug in the kitchen that Oliver painted at school for you, and a bunch of hair ties left scattered in Jason’s bedroom, all belonging to you.

There is a routine now at his apartment whenever you stay the night or two, sometimes longer than in your own place where you only go home to grab new clothes. In the morning you’d make the boys breakfast, chocolate pancakes for Oliver, shaped like bats of course, and the usual egg and sausage for Jason that he always shares with you, chopping up pieces of the meat for you whilst you cut Oliver’s pancakes for him. Little Ollie, all toothy smiles and giggles, rambles on about some show that he forced you two to watch last night whilst you wiped the syrup from his cheek. The three of you would always have breakfast together that it’s basically ingrained in Ollie’s routine. It’s domestic bliss, but it’s all an act when you always leave. And Jason will only kiss you back when you’re both tangled under the sheets.

Over the years, you’ve found yourself becoming closer to Oliver, you met him when he was just a year old, barely walking straight, still teething as he seemingly imprinted on you like a little duckling. The poor kid has grown fond of you too, but now that he’s a bit older, he’s asking a lot of questions. Questions that you don’t even know the answer yourself.

You read him bedtime stories, you help him get ready for school, you kiss him goodbye, and you tell him that you love him. And yet you’re not his mom, his aunt or anyone important in his life, you’re just the woman who takes care of him and yet loves him like he’s your own.

You’ve left your mark in their lives, your life rotates around them, and yet, you’re still an outsider.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll talk to him.” Jason sounds defeated, tired and utterly conflicted.

“Good,” your tone snags at the end as you clear your throat. “I’m almost there, is he still with your neighbor or is Tim watching him now?”

“Tim,” Jason simply says through clenched jaw as he continues his work. “I told him that you’re coming.”

“You’re always so damn presumptuous, Jason Todd.”

“I know you couldn’t resist Ollie, even if you could resist me, only sometimes that is.”

You park the car as you shake your head with a small smile. “One of these days, I’ll say no.”

“I know,” he softly says, almost melancholic. “I’ll be back before his bedtime. Try not to eat all my yogurt this time.”

—

“Where’s my favorite guy?” Opening your arms, Ollie bolts out of the couch as he runs in between Tim’s legs, and launches himself into your arms within a second of his uncle opening the door.

“Here!” Oliver giggles and kicks his feet happily as he wraps his arms around your neck. “I missed you!” He grins toothily, voice squeaky as he tightens his hold on you with all of his five year old might.

“I missed you too, buddy!” Squeezing him, you start to stand up but struggle a bit. “Oh, what is your dad feeding you? You’re getting so big!”

Tim helps you up with his hand on your elbow whilst gathering your bags in his free hand. “I think he got into Jason’s protein powder again.” He jokingly says, but not too farfetched when you once caught him trying to open the big jar.

“You did!” Leaning away, you feign a shocked gasp, smiling at Ollie as he giggles and nods wildly, already distinguishing a joke. He has a striking resemblance to his dad, from his dark hair and brilliant green eyes, it’s as if someone cloned Jason. “What! You could go to jail for that!”

“No, you can’t!” Little Ollie answers in his adorable Robin Hood costume, complete with a green hood that has a bell at the end. It jingles whenever he moves his head, adding to the cuteness.

“Yes, you can!” You tickle his tummy, garnering a laugh that you’re familiar with that never fails to bring a laugh from your throat. “It’s illegal!”

“It’s not ill–gal!”

Tim closes the door behind you as you carry a squirming Oliver into the living room. You could just feel Tim’s eyes watch the two of you pensively. You already know what he’s thinking though, the same as his brothers and sisters that has driven you and Jason to question the relationship the moment Ollie called you ‘mommy’ for the first time.

You toss Ollie on your shoulder, garnering a happy squeal from him. “I’m surrendering you to the police!”

“That’s wrong!” He pats your back, “dad said to not be a…be a smitch!”

You snort a laugh, ruffling his hair whilst he kicks about. “It's snitch, baby.”

Seeing the mess they’ve made during playtime with all the plastic medieval weapons and shields around the place has you wincing if not for the mess you’ve grown accustomed to whenever you’re around their place. There’s even a handmade cardboard dragon, complete with green shimmery scales made from glitter that is sitting on the couch alongside a toy bow and arrow, courtesy of his aunt, Barbara. It seems that uncle Tim wants to overshadow uncle Damian’s arts and crafts skills when you could see the evidence of the art supplies laying on the coffee table.

You feign an offended gasp. “You’ve been playing Robin Hood without me.” Placing him down gently, Ollie looks up at you with his big green eyes. “What’s the story this time?”

“Lord Tim called his banners against me just ‘cause I ate an apple from his tree! But I won by calling my dragon!” He enthusiastically reenacts, arms wide around him, lifting off the fierce dragon as he ‘flies’ around the apartment.

“He cheated, he means.” Tim defends himself from the kitchen, opening the tupperware filled with cookies that you brought as he looks at it like he wants to marry the sweet treat.

“I did not!” Ollie abruptly stops and stomps his foot. “You had your own ogre forces!” He then points an accusing finger at his uncle. “Tell him that it was fair!” Turning to you, he flutters his lashes and pouts, the expression he always pulls whenever he wants you on his side, which is almost always. Especially when it’s against his dad, or in this case, against his uncle.

“How many knights did you have, Robin Hood?” Going around the fuming Ollie, you sidle beside Tim as you pick up a cookie, not taking a bite of it, just brandishing it around like a piece of meat in front of a lion. “Because it’s all in the numbers, you know.”

You know the kid well as he follows the cookie in between your fingers with his gaze. “I think…ten?” Pursing his lips, Ollie lets go of the paper dragon and steps forward. “Can I have some?”

“That depends, did Tim give you any sugar today?”

The boy contemplates, nose scrunching, and fingers flexing, just like a certain someone. It’s almost the exact same face Jason makes whenever he watches you go, as if he’s resisting the urge to ask you to stay.

“...no?”

“That sounds like a question, doesn’t that sound like a question?” You turn towards Tim, who is on his third cookie as you tilt your head at him and snatch the fourth one from his hand. “Did you give him any sweets today?”

“He had a popsicle because he was complaining about his tooth.” He looks offended, eyeing the cookie desperately. You relent with a sigh and give it back to him. Tim immediately perks up and devours it whilst Ollie looks at him with jealousy.

“Is your tooth still hurting, buddy?” With worry in your tone, you crouch down and Oliver crosses the short distance to embrace you. You know this reaction well enough, he’s embarrassed. You pat his back lovingly, moving some stray hair away from his eyes as you peck his temple. “I told your dad that you should go to the dentist—”

“No dentist!” He flinches, but doesn’t move away from you. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” Sweetheart, he calls you sweetheart just because he has heard his dad call you that a million times before that it just stuck. Better than ‘mommy’ that has opened Pandora’s box. “I really am.” Cheek laying atop your chest, you hold him close.

“Yeah, but your tooth will keep hurting if you don’t go. Dad will be there the whole time.” You reassure him, giving him a loving squeeze.

“I know…” he raises his head, looking up at you worriedly. “Susie said that they have drills and knives and scary masks— and it will hurt more.”

“What does Susie know?” Tim adds, cookie crumbs all over his shirt and cheek. “Susie eats glue.”

That garners a laugh from Ollie as you stifle a chuckle. “How about I come with you and dad, hm? Then you can have all the cookies and ice cream you want after the dentist.”

“All I want?” His eyes sparkles. “Even rocky road? And— and your triple chocolate cookies?”

“Of course.” You might regret it later but at least you finally got him agreeing when no one else could.

“Okay, deal!” In true Jason Todd form, Ollie stretches his hand for you to shake. Taking his smaller hand in yours, you then shake it with a smile. “Can I have one now, please?”

Jason’s right, you cannot say no to his son. “Fine, just half though. And if your tooth starts hurting again you have to stop eating.”

“Okay!” He hops in place until you give him half a cookie. “Can I watch TV now?”

“Go, thirty minutes and then dinner for you.” Patting him in the back, you watch him skip over to the living room, clutching the cookie like it's the most precious thing he has. You turn towards the tupperware as it’s almost half empty thanks to Tim. You glare at him whilst you close the lid right in front of him.

“He can’t even eat it!” He protests.

“It’s for Jason.”

Tim groans and goes to wash the crumbs off his hands. “Just get married already, damn.”

“Tim, c’mon.” You slap his bicep, palm meeting a wall. “Ollie might hear you.”

“Fine, I’m just saying…” Sighing, Tim gathers his things from the kitchen counter and shoves them inside his backpack. “Four years together, if you even call it that, and you’re still around after all the ‘will they won’t they’ situation you two got going on.” He zips up the bag, and slings it over his shoulder with a huff. “I mean, shit, I’d go fucking crazy.” He utters lowly, for your ears only as Bluey echoes around the living room.

Your eyes wander towards Ollie as he kicks his legs on the couch happily, then over to the framed picture on the mantle where the three of you smile at the camera during Ollie’s third birthday. “It’s not like that. Jason and I are happy like this. It just…works.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Hand in his pocket, he lets out a breath, eyes flicking from Ollie then back to you. “Look, I just don’t want you to be miserable and feel like you’re being strung along by my idiot brother. You’re a fucking saint, honestly. Just… just know when to say no and leave. Ollie’s the one who’s going to get stuck in the middle of this. He’s getting older, and we both know that he doesn’t just see you as his babysitter when you’ve been here since he was in diapers.”

Arms crossing over your chest, you look at your socked feet. “Yeah, I know that.”

“If Jason keeps being a hardass to you after all the talks you’ve had with him then you don’t deserve this.”

Your jaw tightens, inhaling deeply as you look Tim in the eyes and shrug. “I guess I’m the idiot then.”

“I did not say that, but kind of yes. Just like him.” He chuckles and grasps your elbow gently. “Good luck with the gremlin.”

“One talk.” You say just as he’s putting on his shoes.

“What?”

“Jason and I had one talk about our situation. The others…well, never even finished.”

“Well, keep talking to him. Maybe he’ll wake the fuck up.”

With the click of the door, you deflate and thump your head against the wall. Tim’s heart was in the right place, and you understood his words. Just like all the other words his siblings have told you about your complicated relationship with Jason. Every holiday and birthdays, at least one of them would tell you almost the exact same thing, or you see one of them sidle beside Jason and whisper about the same topic. You knew it was getting serious when Alfred and Bruce had to step in after Dick’s wedding.

“I can see the way he looks at you.” Alfred whispered amidst the sound of the first dance music. “I have seen it on them,” he gestured to the happy married couple, then back to you as you gripped your champagne flute. “And on master Bruce’s parents. Jason’s complicated, but with you, the look just comes easy.”

You remembered the moment you looked at Jason across the room as he carried a sleeping Ollie in his arm, and a drink in the other, the way his gaze immediately gravitated to you was a shake to your core. If Alfred was wrong, then everyone else was. And that’s impossible when they’re the smartest family you’ve ever grown to know. And it’s Alfred, he has never been wrong the whole time you’ve known him.

Running a hand over your face, you turn your gaze over to someone you love without any complications.

“Alright, Robin Hood, grilled chicken for tonight or mac and cheese?”

“Mac and cheese!”

—

Jason comes home to a dark apartment, but unlike the time when he used to go home to an empty barely furnished place where it always feels cold and dim, this one is a comfortable darkness, where the warm lamplight from the living room spills over the couch where his two loves reside. He doesn’t feel alone, on the contrary, he feels complete.

The moment he sees you both sleeping peacefully that calms his anxious mind, he places his equipment quietly inside the closet. Unlacing his boots, he then takes off his jacket and mask, all without making a single peep, especially when his skin pulls at the movement, bruises aching, injuries flaring up as the adrenaline that masks the pain ebbs away.

When he goes around the corner, the TV’s lights flashes across your sleeping face whilst Ollie sleeps soundly on your lap. The sound of the show is quieted down in favour of sleeping. Your cheek is pressed against the back of the sofa, neck tilted uncomfortably as you cradle Ollie lovingly in your arms. He’s curled against you in his dinosaur pajamas, arms clinging onto a Batman plushie you made for him when he was only three after he begged you relentlessly.

The two of you look like any other mother and son pair, and Jason sighs longingly at the sight.

Smiling softly, he reaches for your face, until he realizes that he’s still wearing the same bloodstained gloves. His jaw tightens, how could he hold you with those hands?

You stir awake as you feel his presence, so used to the smell of copper on his suit, and the warmth that feels like home to you. “Jay?” Your voice crackles whilst you blink blearily at his large looming shadow. Some would be intimidated or even terrified of the sight, but not you, you reach out to the shadow softly, fingers wrapping around his outstretched wrist. “You’re late.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Jason laughs through his nose, chortling under his breath. “Sorry, I ran into some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Concern knits your brows as you pull him closer into the light to survey his appearance. “You okay?”

He feels your eyes rake around his face and his form, swallowing thickly when you have no idea the effect you have on him. “Yeah, I’m good, just need a shower and sleep.”

When your hand pulls away, Jason feels the longing come back in waves.

“Come sit with me for a bit.” You pat the space beside you, tucking Ollie’s feet further into the couch to make space for his dad. If it was anyone else asking him, he’d brush them off, but it’s you, so he obliges without a peep, groaning as his knees pop. “Need medical attention? The nurse is on call.” Lashes fluttering, cheek resting atop your shoulder, you smile fondly at him.

Jason shakes his head with a chuckle, yanking off his gloves and shoving it inside his pockets. “No, I’m good, nothing I can’t handle. The nurse can keep holding the little prince.” His head droops back over the backrest of the couch, corded neck in full display whilst he swallows thickly as his fingers rake through his dark tresses. If only he knows the effect he has on you. “How was your day?” His green eyes flutter open, gazing at you with tenderness.

“Well,” clearing your throat, you fix your hold on Oliver to disguise your flustering. “We played Robin Hood for two hours, got him to eat some grilled chicken with his mac and cheese. And get this, I actually talked him into going to the dentist.” You grin victoriously, tapping his broad chest proudly.

“Shit. How’d you manage that?” His brilliant green eyes glimmer with pride. “I’ve been trying to get him to go for weeks.”

“That’s the thing though,” you bite your lip, wincing as if you’ve done something wrong, or stepped over the line. “I promised him that I’d come along.”

“Why does it sound like you regret it?” Brows furrowed, he has the look of bewilderment. “I’m fine with that, Ollie’s fine with that if he agreed.”

“I mean, I thought it’s a dad and son exclusive thing. Like a bonding thing.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs with a smile. “It’s the fucking dentist. If my son wants you there then the more I want you there with us.”

You let out a sigh of relief that he could feel. “That’s good then. Also I sort of promised him that he could have lots of sweets after.”

“Well that’s where we’re going to have a problem.” A growing teasing smile appears on his lips whilst you stifle a laugh. “He’d be up until dawn and that means we’d be up until dawn.”

“Who said I’ll be there after? I’m out after the dentist.” You scooch closer as he loops his leg around your own like usual, pulling you close, like how he always does during movie nights and days spent together whilst watching his energizer bunny of a son. “You’re on your own, Jay.”

“Oh, c’mon, not even for double the pay?” Jason takes Ollie’s legs gingerly and rests them above his lap so he could move closer to your side.

“No amount of money is worth it for running after a sugar high Oliver Todd.” You get the message as you place your head atop his shoulder. He winces before you could even rest fully on him. “Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah,” his face twists in pain. “Just— just give me a sec.” With his large palm covering his shoulder, he pushes in harshly as you hear a loud pop that has you reeling and covering your mouth in shock. Ollie stirs in his sleep but with Jason patting his back sweetly, he goes back to sleep. “There, you were saying?”

“That was…the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Thought you’d be disgusted.” The corner of his lips tug up into a smirk.

“Shocked, but I got over it when I realized that you fixed a dislocated shoulder without vomiting in pain.” You stifle a laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “Seriously though, do you need to go to the hospital to get that checked out?”

“No, I’m good. I’m used to this.”

“That’s not a good thing actually.” Nose scrunched, he scoffs out a chortle, rolling his eyes at your expression. “I still remember the first time the hospital called me years ago, I didn’t even know I was your emergency contact. I thought you’d have a gunshot wound or your face all melted but it was for a broken knee.” Your tone softens, eyes meeting his own. “You really scared me back then.”

“That was such a long time ago,” Jason still remembers the frantic look on your face when you pulled open the hospital curtains. “I told Dick that I was fine but he had to fireman carry me to the hospital, said something about having fucked up knees of an eighty year old. He got a black eye from me then.”

“I remember the selfies he took. While you were on the hospital bed in the hospital gown with the opened back.” You shake your head at the memory. “Has anyone told you that you have a nice ass?”

“Of course.” He says almost immediately with pride that makes you roll your eyes. “Say that again when I get Ollie to bed.”

“Noting that in, boss.” You tap your forehead comedically, tiredness forgotten as your shoulder presses against his comfortably.

“You know I…” Clearing his throat, fingers flexing on his thigh, Jason looks at Ollie before gazing back at you. “you’re still my emergency contact.”

You scoff. “Why? Alfred’s more reliable, he’ll be there on a heli or something. If you guys still do the whole hospital thing when it’s been years.”

“Because you’re not Alfred.” He says softly.

“I don’t have a sick mustache so.”

“Sweetheart, I’m trying to tell you something here.”

“Then tell me, Jason.” You inhale, smelling the iron on his suit and the baby powder that still clings to your hand. “We’ve known each other for years, practically co-parenting this gremlin together and have seen each other naked a million times before so just tell me.”

“I did it.”

“Did what?” Brows furrowed, your worry grows from his heavy expression. “Eat the lasagna I left in the freezer for Ollie?” You joke to ease him.

“No— actually that might be me, but no that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Jason fully turns to you, arm thrown over the back of the couch as his bruised knuckles brush along your neck.

“Okay.” You hold the back of his hand that rests atop his thigh. “I’m here. You can tell me.”

“Remember when you told me that you thought you were being followed?”

“Yeah, but that was,” you wrack your brain. “shit, that was years ago. Literally when Ollie was still a baby.”

“I love how we determine time with Ollie.” He takes a breath, wiping away a stray glitter from your cheek.

“BO, before Ollie, AO, after Ollie.” Sucking in your teeth, you wince. “Actually, BO doesn’t sound as nice.”

He pauses, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your lips that has you quieting down.

“What was that for?”

“Just ‘cause.” His brilliant green eyes glance down at your lips, resisting the urge to kiss you.

“Right, sorry, I’m not taking this seriously, what were you saying, Jay? You can tell me, I won’t judge, whatever it is.”

“This isn’t like the mole I had.”

“I still think it looked like a hidden Mickey.” He chuckles, forehead resting on your temple before inhaling deeply and leaning away. “You’re acting weird, Jaybird. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Sweetheart,” pursing his lips, he squeezes your hand. “You were being followed that day. It wasn’t your imagination.”

“Shit.” You suddenly feel winded. “You found out about it? How—? Who would even do that? I’m no one.”

“You’re more than that. And someone figured it out too.”

He tells you how that simple passing comment that you told him once as you helped with unloading groceries you got him while he was too busy and sleep deprived with baby Ollie— and that he managed to uncover a whole crime syndicate hell bent on taking the Red Hood down and everyone who is associated with him. He tells you how he’s been tracking and taking them down for years, and occasionally with his siblings. But it got harder, he used his own methods when they got too close to you and Ollie one day in the playground. Unbeknownst to you, your life was in danger together with his son, he couldn’t just let them roam around freely and wait for them to strike, no, Jason had to eliminate every single one of them. Even though it would take him years, it has taken him years. But as of today, he has finished what he started, and he can finally do what he wanted to do from the start.

“You’ve been hunting them down for years? All this time?” Your eyes search his emerald eyes, looking for a joke or a lie, but you don’t find it.

“When I asked you to move in with us, they were getting too close to you, and I wanted to protect you as best I could.” Jason leans forward, elbows atop his knee, as if he’s in pain. His hair falls over his face, a dark curtain that hides his fatigue. “Thought that it might’ve helped if you were near. But it only led to an argument.”

“I said no because it would’ve confused Ollie.” Reaching for him, you retract your hand with hesitation as your brows furrow, holding onto Oliver as if he’s about to be taken. “Even then— I don’t know, you still felt so far away from me, Jay.”

“I know,” he sighs, shoulders taut as his shirt stretches from the movement. “I wanted to put an end to them before I could commit because I was fucking terrified that they’d get you, but at the same time I couldn’t let you go. I don’t know which one was harder.”

For a moment you have no words, as you could only hear Ollie’s soft breathing and Jason’s strained one. So with love in your heart for the man before you, you place your palm atop his nape, thumb pressing gently along his taut skin, caressing softly, right where you know a scar lies, one that he hasn’t told you the truth about how it came to be. That he got it for protecting you and his son.

Jason doesn’t pull away, it took him years to learn to not move away from your touch. A lot of unlearning too, that the whole world isn’t out to get him. That someone could love him enough to just be there and hold him for comfort. His muscles relax on instinct from your hand gently gliding along his shoulder blades.

“All I know is that I couldn’t lose you.” He finally says after a breath, fists clenching in front of him. His neck cranes to you, cheek pressed right atop your hand, eyes soft, and fully leaning into your touch. “But now that’s done, and I could— we could… I don’t know.”

You encourage him with a genuine sweet smile, one that you only reserve just for him and the boy you cradle in your arms. “Tell me, Jason, I’ve stuck around this long.”

His lips brush along the length of your fingers. “Together. If you want.”

“Jason Peter Todd, I’m cradling your son in my arms after running after him for hours on end and I still want to do it all over again. My clothes are in the dryer, my hair is stuck in your hairbrush. And I’m going to the dentist with you and Ollie even though I fucking hate it there too. What do you think?”

“That’s the clearest yes I’ve ever heard without someone actually saying it.” Chuckling, he mirrors your smile. “I think I should ask you out first. An actual date without eating mac and cheese while watching Bluey.”

Cheeks aflame, stomach doing somersaults, you scoff that is akin to a laugh. “I would love that.”

“Yeah?” His expression brightens, eyes glimmering as he sits up, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers around yours.

“Yeah, just kiss me, Jaybird.”

Jason does some maneuvering around Oliver that makes you bite your lip to stifle a laugh. He finally gets close to your lips as Ollie is completely on his lap and yours, still sleeping soundly as he kisses you chastely, and yet tender, enough to be a promise for more later. It’s the kind of kiss he gives you whenever everyone else is looking away, a simple kiss that reminds you that he’s there, quietly telling you to wait, and wait you did.

When he leans away, he has forgotten about all the aches. All the while your eyes stay on his parted lips with longing, then back to his eyes that you love unconditionally. “I’ll take your clothes out of the dryer and then take Ollie to bed. Meet me at our usual place?”

Your brows pinch together, but the smile on your face remains. “The bar downtown? It’s a bit too late for a drink.”

“No,” he laughs, cradling your cheek in his rough hand, gently rubbing away the sleep tucked in the corner of your eye. “The bedroom, my idiot.” Jason says it affectionately, moving closer as he gives you a peck, and another, and another until you’re both smiling into the kiss.

You whisper teasingly. “Ah, to continue our conversation, right?”

“Yeah,” Standing up, Jason sheds his body armour, and shirt with one swift movement that has you mesmerized. Just so he doesn’t dirty his son’s favorite pajamas, he then gently takes Ollie in his hold, pressing a quick peck on his temple, before tapping your foot with his own. “It’ll be a very productive conversation.” He bends at the waist, still carrying Ollie as if he weighs nothing just to kiss you as if he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll be there.”

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