Jason doesn’t get Halloween.

He never has.

All he sees is a bunch of sugar-hyped kids running around in cheap costumes begging for candy they could just buy from a corner store. If they wanted chocolate that badly, hell, he'd buy it for them.

Maybe it’s the whole died-young-and-came-back-angry thing talking. Or maybe it’s because while kids were out bobbing for apples and screaming over jump scares, he was trying to make it through another night in Crime Alley without getting jumped.

Whatever the reason, his stance stands: Halloween is dumb.

“Halloween is stupid,” he muttered, slouching deeper into the couch, controller in hand. “So no, I’m not going trick-or-treating with you.”

He didn’t even glance your way when he said it. But then—then—you stepped fully into the room, and his eyes flicked up.

He did look.

And then he scoffed.

“What the hell are you even supposed to be?” Jason asked, lifting a brow and smirking. “You look ridiculous.”

You don’t. He knows it. Too well, actually. The costume hugged you in just the right ways, and there was something about the light in your eyes—hell, you looked adorable. In that heart-aching, punch-me-in-the-face kind of way.

Which is exactly why he wouldn’t say a word about it.

So he leaned back with a sigh and turned back to the game, muttering, “Could’ve picked a scarier costume, at least…”

He wasn’t annoyed at you. He was annoyed at himself.

Because you—bright-eyed and excited—reminded him of everything he never had. While you were growing up with movie nights and warm dinners, he was scraping together candy bars and dodging crime bosses.

Bruce had asked him to take you out. Jason had flat-out refused. He thought that was the end of it.

Clearly, it wasn’t.

“Tch. If you’re that desperate to knock on doors, go ask Alfred,” he muttered, brushing past you to grab the popcorn bowl. As he did, he gave your shoulder a light nudge—just enough to make you wobble.

“Careful,” he added. “You trip in those heels and break your neck, I’m not responsible.”

He dropped onto the couch, legs kicked up on the table like he owned the place.

“Go to your little witch convention already,” he grumbled. “You’re blocking the TV.”

But you saw it.

The flick of his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. The way they lingered. The twitch in his jaw when you stepped back like you were leaving.

He sighed again. Softer.

“...You’re really going?” he asked after a beat, quieter now.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Whatever,” he said quickly, controller twitching in his hands. “Don’t get kidnapped. I’m not fighting a zombie horde for your cute ass.”

The game resumed.

But his eyes weren’t really on the screen anymore.

They were still on you.