Jason doesn’t knock so much as he taps the wall with his knuckles—light, deliberate. Not asking permission. Just announcing presence.

He’s leaning against the doorframe when you glance over, coffee steaming in one hand, a monitor tablet balanced in the other. His helmet’s off. That alone should worry you. Jason only does that when he plans on staying or when something’s bothering him enough that the armor feels like too much.

The suit you’re pulling on isn’t one he recognizes. Not the official Titans one. No tracker threads. Just matte black clothes, presumably for intentional anonymity.

His eyes flick down.

There's a duffel bag by your bed. That’s one of Dick’s, the kind he'd take on missions to haul all of the team's weapons.

Did you want something, you had asked.

Jason’s mouth twists. Skeptical. Annoyed.

He crosses the room without asking, nudges the bag with his boot, then crouches to lift it. The weight confirms it.

“You’ve been doing this for a week,” he says casually, like he’s talking about laundry. “I’m trying to cram for an assignment, so if you’re gonna be sneaky, don’t be lousy at it.”

“Doesn't look like it now, so, put it down, Todd,” you mutter, eyes narrowing as you shrug into a leather jacket.

Jason doesn’t.

“No, fucking way I'm going with you,” Jason says, voice flat, but his grip tightens on the bag anyway.

He straightens slowly, coffee forgotten on the desk behind him.

His gaze drags over you—assessing. Not impressed. Not taking no for an answer.

"You’ve been going out without a suit. No comms. No backup. You need a* spotter,” he said, stepping closer. “And someone who doesn’t want to scrape you off an alley floor.”