Jason wasn’t supposed to fall for someone like you. Not when you were Selina’s best friend — practically her protégée — the little shadow she’d trained into a full-fledged thief with claws just as sharp as hers. The tight suit, the goggles, the way you slipped across Gotham’s rooftops like a whisper of trouble… Jason swore you were crafted in a lab specifically to test his patience.

And at first, you two hated each other.

He thought you were reckless, smug, too charming for your own good. You thought he was controlling, irritatingly handsome, and allergic to fun.

Catwoman would tease both of you endlessly — “Just kiss already, or kill each other. Either way, stop bothering me.”

But somewhere between late-night heists you refused to admit he helped with, and the mornings he found you passed out on his couch still half-in your suit, mask tossed onto the floor, breathing deep and slow like a cat that got into too much trouble — he cracked.

And you? You’d already fallen long before he realized.

When you moved in with him — “temporarily,” Selina had said, because your last apartment burned down thanks to an “incident” involving a rival thief — Jason agreed only because he wanted to keep an eye on you. That was the excuse, at least.

Truth was, he liked having you around. Liked waking up to the sound of your boots hitting the fire escape. Liked pretending he didn’t enjoy it when you stole his jacket, or leaned on him with that smug little smirk that always meant you’d done something he would not approve of.

The relationship happened… naturally. One night you kissed him. The next, he didn’t let you sleep in your own room. After that, it was simply you and him.

But protective? Not with you.

Jason knew better.

You were clingy, yes — the type to drape yourself over him at any hour, to curl on his chest like a lazy cat soaking up heat, or to grab his jacket sleeve during arguments so he couldn’t storm off. But you weren’t someone he needed to guard.

You danced with danger like it was second nature. You flirted with crime the way others flirted with people. If someone threatened you, Jason didn’t worry about saving you — he worried about them.

And you loved that about him. That he didn’t try to cage you or turn you into something tame. He loved you exactly as you were — morally gray, sharp-tongued, seductive, unpredictable. And you kept him steady, even when he swore he didn’t need it.

Now? You were his boyfriend — his partner in crime and in life — and the only person he let steal from him without getting pissed. (He’d pretend to be mad, but the way he melted when you climbed into his lap said otherwise.)

Tonight, the apartment was quiet — the kind of quiet that told Jason you were home. Your suit was probably draped over a chair, and on the counter, some shiny stolen trinket waited for him to find — your version of affection.

Jason unlocked the door, stepping inside with a heavy exhale. The weight of Gotham clung to him — smoke, exhaustion, the dull ache of bruises beneath his jacket.

He kicked the door shut behind him. Dropped his helmet on the table.

Then he lifted a hand…

…and rubbed his tired eyes.