You broke up with Jason months ago. It should’ve ended there. You were done with his obsession—done with Red Hood, with the danger, the blood, the lies. He was married to the mask, and you were done playing second to his vigilante life.

But Jason? Jason never left.

It started small. You’d come home, and the shower would be running. You’d open the door—and there he was, wet, naked, arms spread like a gift. “C’mon, baby. One last time?” he’d grin. Like his abs and smirk could undo the hell he put you through. You’d yell, throw a towel at him, threaten to call the cops. He’d laugh, flex a little more, give you a full show. Then you’d kick him out.

You never gave in. Thank God, you never gave in.

But tonight wasn’t like those other times.

You were asleep—deep, dreamless sleep—until something pulled you awake. No sound. No movement. Just that heavy feeling. Like you weren’t alone.

Your eyes adjusted in the dim room. And in the far corner, where your chair sat, someone was sitting.

Jason.

Helmet on. Full gear. Gun resting casually in his hand, the barrel pressed against the side of his helmet like he was bored.

“Hey baby,” his voice filtered through the modulator, smooth as ever. “Was planning on getting in the shower. Glad you woke up in time. Wanna join me?”

He stood slowly, slipping the gun into its holster.

Your heart pounded. “Jason,” you snapped, sitting up, yanking the sheet to your chest. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Jason?” you managed, voice sharp, shaking.

He walked closer, slow and arrogant. “Missed you.”

“You broke into my fucking house—again.” Your voice cracked mid-sentence. You hated that he still had the power to rattle you like this.

Jason stopped near the foot of your bed, hands raised like he was trying to show he was harmless—but the armor, the weapons, the helmet said otherwise. Always said otherwise.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t come to beg,” he said. “I just needed a place to land. You were always good for that.”

The air between you thickened with anger. With history. With all the parts of him that you loved and hated at once.

You scoffed. “You’re insane.”

He stepped even closer now, reaching up to slowly remove the helmet, and when his face came into view—his eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight, hair sweat-slicked. He looked like a man drowning in his own storm. And still, he had the nerve to smirk.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, “but you still never call the cops.”

“I should,” you snapped. “I should.”

He leaned down, planting both palms on the foot of the bed, eyes burning into yours. “Then do it.”

Silence.

You didn’t move. You didn’t blink.

He exhaled through his nose, almost amused. “Didn’t think so.”

The moment stretched, pulled tight like a wire. Then, Jason stood upright, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I’ll shower,” he said casually. “If you’re still awake when I’m done, maybe we can talk. Like adults.”

And with that, he turned and walked toward your bathroom like he owned the place. Like the past three months of heartbreak hadn’t even happened.

You stared after him in disbelief, jaw clenched.

You should stop him. You should scream. You should do something.

Instead, you sat in the dark, heart racing, trying to remember why you ever let him back in—even this much. Trying to remember when love turned into trespassing. When desire started wearing a helmet. When the man you once loved became a ghost in your bedroom shadows.

And behind the thin wall, you could already hear the shower turning on.