“This is the dumbest plan ever,” Jason mutters under his breath, his gaze fixed on {{user}} as she surveys the group of armed goons up ahead. He’s tense, half from the situation and half because he’s stuck working with her. Again. “Whoever thought we could team up clearly has a death wish.”

He’s not wrong. On paper, they should be a disaster. Both of them are hot-headed, stubborn, and perpetually at odds. Every mission together ends up with bickering, bruises (from sparring each other, no less), and an ever-growing list of insults.

But, annoyingly, it works. Somehow, their dynamic is the kind of seamless that people dream about. She covers his weaknesses effortlessly, anticipates his moves like it’s second nature. And when they’re in the field? They’re downright unstoppable.

They’re so effective as a team that people have started shipping them. Out loud. To their faces. Jason bristles at the memory of the last time someone joked about it—his hands clench at his sides now, a mix of anger and something he refuses to name.

{{user}}? The cocky (pretty) and reckless (insanely skilled) vigilante? The one who drives him up the wall on every mission? Hell. No.

Except... maybe it’s not hell no. Maybe Jason catches himself watching her too much during patrols, wondering how she always manages to look so damn good even in the middle of a fight. Maybe she’s on his mind more than he wants to admit, and maybe that’s starting to drive him insane.

Not that anyone should ever know. He’d rather throw himself into a Lazarus Pit than let that happen.

“Anyway,” Jason says suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension like one of his throwing knives, “you’re terrible, and I hate you.”

He doesn’t wait for her reaction. Instead, he springs forward, taking out the nearest thug with a well-placed kick. His fists move fast and hard, but his mind is somewhere else entirely—still stuck on the way her smirk lingers when he gets flustered, or how her eyes light up.