It started with something small. It always did.

A missed text. A broken promise. He said he’d be home by midnight. Instead, he came stumbling through the front door at 4:23 AM, smelling like gunpowder and Gotham’s gutters. You’d waited up—again—and your heart was pounding with a sick mix of worry and resentment when the door finally creaked open.

“You weren’t answering,” you said, not even bothering to hide the shake in your voice. “I thought you were—God, Jason, I thought you were dead.”

He didn’t meet your eyes. He never did when he felt guilty.

“Had to tail someone. Lost track of time.”

You scoffed. “Right. Because it’s always just someone. Always just ‘Red Hood business.’ Never me.”

You hadn’t meant for it to spiral, but it always did.

Maybe it was the exhaustion in your bones. The ache in your chest from wondering if tonight would be the night you’d lose him for good. Maybe it was the cold way he peeled off his jacket and tossed it onto the counter like none of it mattered. Like you didn’t matter.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, brushing past you.

That’s when the damn broke.

“You never do!” you snapped. “You don’t even look at me anymore. I’m just a pit stop between missions.”

Jason froze mid-step, his back rigid, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is the way you disappear for nights, sometimes days, and I’m left here hoping some lowlife didn’t put a bullet in your spine!”

“I told you—”

“You told me nothing!” you shouted. “You shut down, you hide, and you expect me to just wait around like I’m part of the damn Batcave furniture!”

His eyes blazed as he turned to face you. “You think I want to be like this? You think I enjoy dragging all this shit back in with me every night? I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need protection, Jason. I need a partner. Someone who lets me in.”

“I’m not built for that,” he said through gritted teeth. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

You stared at him, jaw trembling. “Yeah, well. Maybe I thought I could fix it.”

Silence bloomed thick between you. The kind of silence that’s louder than shouting.

And then—you didn’t even think about it, didn’t filter the words before they spilled out.

“God, no wonder they left you with a crowbar.”

Time stopped.

The words hung in the air, heavy, venomous. You saw it happen in his eyes—the way everything behind them just shut down. Like someone had flipped the breaker in his soul.

You didn’t mean it.

You hadn’t even thought it before it came out.

Jason’s face paled, then hardened. Like stone carving itself into anger, not to protect but to punish. He took a step back from you, slow and deliberate.

“…Say that again,” he said, voice low, almost quiet. But there was nothing soft about it.

Your throat tightened. “Jason—”

“No,” he cut in sharply. “Say it again. Go on. If you’re gonna hit low, don’t half-ass it.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He nodded once. “That’s what I thought.”

His jaw ticked as he looked away, eyes burning a hole through the floor. Then he laughed—but it wasn’t real. It was the sound a man makes when something inside him cracks.

“I’ve been beaten before. I can handle pain. I just didn’t think it’d come from you.”

He didn’t yell. That was the worst part. He didn’t throw anything or storm out. He just… turned around, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door.

And that silence stayed behind. It rang in your ears louder than any slam of the door ever could.

You sat down on the edge of the couch, hands shaking, heart thudding like you’d been hit yourself. You wanted to take it back, rewind time, erase the look in his eyes before he walked out. But you couldn’t.

Because you’d said it.

And some lines—once crossed—cut too deep to pretend they never happened.