The walls of your shared apartment were too thin.

Too thin for the laughter slipping under Jason’s bedroom door. Too thin for the way her voice curled around his name—playful, teasing, intimate. Too thin for the choked sound you made as you pressed your forehead against the fridge, the cold metal doing nothing to numb the ache in your chest.

This wasn’t just another one of his games.

This was cruelty.

Jason knew.

He knew how you felt—had known for months, ever since that night you’d gotten drunk on cheap wine and almost kissed him before chickening out. He’d seen the way your breath hitched when he walked around shirtless after patrol, how you’d started avoiding his touch like it burned.

And instead of confessing?

Instead of talking like a normal person?

He’d escalated.

Flirting with baristas in front of you. “Accidentally” leaving dating apps open on his phone. And now? This—some random girl from the gym, giggling in his room while you stood in the kitchen, gripping a carton of orange juice so hard it dented.

The worst part?

You knew what he was doing.

Because Jason Todd didn’t do relationships. Didn’t do vulnerability. So he’d engineered this entire sick charade to force your hand—to make you say it first, just so he wouldn’t have to risk his own heart.

And you were done.