Everyone thought you were the shy girl. The quiet one. Always tucked in a corner at Wayne Tech’s sprawling university library, jotting down meticulous notes in perfect handwriting. Soft sweaters. Soft voice. Soft smiles.

Jason Todd was the opposite of soft.

He was trouble.

Leather jacket. Motorcycle. Smart mouth. A reputation that practically walked in before him—criminal past, bad attitude, unresolved anger issues. A motorcycle parked illegally outside campus. Permanent bruises on his knuckles and a reputation that smelled like gunpowder and gasoline.

The professors knew who he was. So did security.

“Stay away from him,” they warned.

So, naturally, you walked right over to his table in the library one evening, tucked your skirt neatly beneath you, and sat down across from him without saying a word.

Silence stretched between you like a pulled thread ready to snap.

It was a rainy Gotham afternoon when you made your move. He was slouched at the back corner of the library, boots propped on the chair opposite, lazily flipping through a battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, of all things. Fitting.

He didn’t even glance up at first, just smirked slightly. “Wrong table, sweetheart.”