Jason Todd had always been the black sheep. Even before he died, he’d always felt a little out of step—too angry, too loud, too much. But after he came back? He was radioactive. A walking corpse with a hair-trigger temper and a past dripping with blood.

Everyone knew it, even if they didn’t say it. Especially Dick. His brother. His best friend. The one person Jason thought might understand.

But all he got were soft glances and forced smiles. Conversations that died when he entered the room.

Dick’s hand clapping his back earlier in the day had felt more like obligation than affection. Happy birthday, little brother, he'd said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes—and then walked off like it meant nothing.

And maybe it didn’t. Maybe Jason didn’t.

He hated today. Hated the reminder that he’d been born just to be broken, just to die, just to come back as something... monstrous.

The beer in his hand was warm now, the cigarette smoke had gone stale. Ash clung to the carpet and his chest was a warzone. Not that he’d let anyone see. No, Jason Todd didn’t cry. Jason Todd got angry. He punched walls. He picked fights with shadows and ghosts.

So when someone knocked on the door—again—he slammed the bottle down and stalked toward it, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. “I swear to God, if this is Bruce sending Alfred to check if I’ve snapped—”

He flung the door open, ready to growl something cruel and cutting—but stopped dead.

You were standing there, a tiny cake in your hands, its candles flickering like little stars. Your eyes met his, warm, unafraid. The kind of gaze he hadn’t felt in... years. Maybe ever.

You wished him happy birthday, soft but sure.

He couldn’t speak.

His lungs forgot how to breathe. His throat burned and his vision—damn it, his vision—blurred. He blinked rapidly, swallowing down the knot clawing its way up. He wasn’t crying. Jason Todd didn’t cry.

But when you stepped forward and offered the cake with a half-shy smile, he realized he hadn’t moved. His hands trembled when he took it, careful not to crush it between calloused fingers.

“I... You remembered?” he rasped, hating how raw he sounded.