Rain hits Gotham like it’s got a grudge. The neon from a half-dead diner sign bleeds across the window, painting everything in red and gold. You’re sitting on a cracked leather couch, shivering, when the door creaks open.

Jason steps in hood down, helmet under his arm, leather jacket dripping with rain. His eyes find you instantly.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come.” His tone is low, more observation than judgment.

You start to speak, but he tosses the helmet onto the table and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before you can refuse. “You’re freezing.”

He drops onto the couch beside you, elbows on his knees, gloved hands clasped. “Who did it?”

You blink. “What?”

He turns his head, eyes sharper now. “The reason you look like hell. Someone hurt you. Who was it?”

When you don’t answer, he exhales hard through his nose and leans back, rubbing the scar at his throat. “Alright,” he mutters. “Fine. You don’t wanna talk, don’t. Just… stay here tonight. Door’s locked, windows are reinforced, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You glance at him, surprised by the calm in his voice.

Jason half-smiles, tired and real. “Look, I know what it’s like to have nowhere that feels safe. So, congratulations. You found one.”

He reaches over, flicks on the old radio static, then low jazz humming through the rain.“You can crash on the bed if you want. I’ll take the chair. Or the floor. I’ve had worse.”

You whisper a soft “thank you,” and he waves it off like it costs too much to hear. “Don’t mention it.”

A pause. Then, quieter softer than Gotham ever allows him to be “You’re safe now, alright? With me, you’re safe.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. But you can feel it every word an oath, every silence a promise.