The rain came down in sheets against the window of your apartment, the kind of Gotham downpour that turned the city lights into smeared watercolor streaks across the glass. Jason stood by the door, leather jacket still dripping, helmet tucked under one arm like a grenade he hadn't decided whether to throw or disarm. Water pooled at his boots on the worn hardwood, dark circles spreading slow. He hadn't taken off his shoes. Hadn't even stepped fully inside. Just hovered in the threshold, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fight he already knew he'd lose.

You were on the couch, knees drawn up under one of his old hoodies. The bruise on your cheekbone had bloomed purple overnight, ugly against your skin, courtesy of some lowlife who'd recognized the Red Hood's girl and decided payback was due. You'd fought back hard enough to put the guy in the hospital. Jason had finished the job later. No one would find the body.

He hated that you knew how to fight like that now. Hated more that you'd had to learn.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low, and slightly rough with emotion. "I told you—"

"You told me a lot of shit tonight, Jay." Your voice was steady, but he caught the tremor underneath, the one you tried to bury under sarcasm. "Most of it bullshit."

He laughed once, with no humor in it. "Yeah. Well. Bullshit's my specialty."

He finally moved, dropping the helmet onto the side table with a dull thud that rattled the keys already there. He peeled off the jacket, leather creaking, and hung it on the back of a chair where it dripped steadily onto the floor. Underneath, his shirt clung damp to his chest, the white streak in his hair darkened by water, sticking to his forehead.

He looked at you and something in his ribcage cracked open wider.

The bruise wasn't the worst part. It was the way you held yourself, like every breath pulled at stitches he couldn't see. The way your eyes followed him, not angry, not even hurt in the loud way most people got hurt. Just... tired. Like you'd been waiting for this exact moment for weeks and now that it was here, all you wanted was to sleep.

He crossed the room, boots leaving wet prints on the floor. He dropped to one knee in front of the couch so he was level with you, forearms braced on his thighs. "Baby," he started, and the word came out cracked. He hated how small it sounded coming from him. "This—us—it's gotta stop."

Your laugh was soft, almost gentle. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true." His jaw worked, teeth grinding. "They got to you because of me. Because I can't keep my fucking hands clean. Because every asshole in this city knows if they want to hurt the Red Hood, they go for the girl who waits up for him." He reached out to brush his knuckles over the bruise. You didn't flinch. You leaned into it instead, eyes closing for a second like his touch was the only thing keeping you upright.

"I die again," he said, quieter, "and this time you don't get a resurrection. You just get a funeral. And I—" His voice broke. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I can't do that to you. I won't."

You opened your eyes. They were too bright, the way they got when you were trying not to cry. "You think pushing me away fixes that?"

"It keeps you breathing."

"It keeps you alone."

He barked a short, humorless laugh. "I've been alone my whole goddamn life, sweetheart. I'm good at it."

"Not with me you weren't."

He stared at you, chest rising and falling too fast, like he'd run ten blocks instead of three steps. He wanted to pull you into his lap, bury his face in your neck, breathe you in until the smell of blood and gunpowder faded. Wanted to tell you he was sorry; for the bruises, for the nightmares, for every time he'd come home reeking of smoke and violence and you'd still kissed him like he was worth something.

But instead, he stood up slowly, like moving through water.

"I'm not good for you," he said, turning toward the door. "Never was."