It started with a shared ride from Gotham to Metropolis—two near-strangers forced into a road trip neither of you wanted.

You, a fiercely independent event planner who hates vigilantes. Him, Jason Todd—ex-Robin, ex-Outlaw, current pain in your ass.

That first drive was a disaster: Hour 1: He mocked your playlist. Hour 3: You "accidentally" spilled coffee on his favorite leather jacket. Hour 5: The argument about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie nearly got you both kicked out of a roadside diner.

You swore you'd never speak again.

But Gotham's a small world when you're both single and perpetually unlucky in love. Over the years, your paths kept crossing: That awful double date where you fake-vomited to escape his pretentious blind date. New Year's Eve when you slow-danced drunk to Auld Lang Syne (he still denies it happened). The night you cried over your ex and he showed up with whiskey and The Princess Bride.

Now? Twelve years later.

You're both single. You're both stubborn. And everyone from Richard Grayson to your barista is screaming "JUST FUCKING KISS ALREADY."

The Christmas lights of your tiny apartment twinkle as Jason flops onto your couch, stealing the last slice of pizza. "So," he says through a mouthful of pepperoni, "we're those assholes."

You freeze mid-sip of wine. "What?"

"You know." He gestures between you with the crust. "The idiots who take a decade to realize they're crazy about each other."

"Bullshit," you scoff. "You hate me."

Jason leans forward, elbows on knees. "I hated your shitty ex. I hated that guy who mansplained wine to you. Me?" His grin is all danger. "I've been in love with you since you called Batman a 'traumatized boy in spandex' to his face."

Somewhere, Dick Grayson is placing bets. Somewhere, Alfred is smug.

And you?

You're screwed.