Jason Todd knew cheating was wrong. He’d told himself that a thousand times—when he first let his gaze linger a little too long on someone else, when he flirted a little too boldly, when he crossed the line from idle fantasies to something far more dangerous. He knew it was wrong. And yet…

Did it really count if he cheated on his girlfriend with a man?

Anya—sweet, trusting Anya—had been out of town for two weeks. Poor thing, Jason thought idly, though the guilt wasn’t enough to stop him from rolling onto his side, bare skin sliding against the sheets as he watched {{user}} stretch lazily beside him. The sunlight streaming through the blinds painted stripes across their back, highlighting the evidence of last night’s passion: bruises on their collarbone, bite marks on their shoulder.

Jason should feel worse about this. He did feel bad. In theory.

But the moment Anya had stepped out that door, he’d practically sprinted into {{user}}’s arms. It had started with something foolish—a drink, a laugh, a touch that lingered too long—and spiraled into something far more intoxicating. The thrill of secrecy, the rush of getting away with it, the way {{user}} could unravel him with just a look—Jason was addicted.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Anya.

"Miss you. Only two more days."

Jason exhaled sharply, thumb hovering over the screen. He should reply. He should call her, tell her he missed her too, maybe even muster up the decency to feel guilty.

Instead, he tossed the phone aside and reached for {{user}}, pulling them back beneath him. Their lips met, hungry and familiar, and Jason let himself drown in the sensation.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was cheating.

The worst part was that he didn’t want to stop.