“What are you doing here?” Jason paused halfway through pulling his jacket off, frozen like he’d seen a ghost. He blinked at you in surprise, chest tight, throat burning with words he didn’t know how to say. He hadn’t seen you since… since he walked away. Since he convinced himself that leaving was the only way to keep you safe. He’d told himself he did it because you deserved better than him. That you deserved quiet mornings and steady love, not someone with bloody hands and a target on his back. He had broken his own heart in the process, but that was fine. It was supposed to be fine.

He forced himself to move, hanging his jacket on the crooked coat rack by the door. His keys clattered as he hooked them on the nail next to it. The sound felt louder than it should have, like it was mocking him for how small this cabin was. It was supposed to be his escape, his nowhere, and somehow you were standing in the middle of it.

“I came here to be alone,” he muttered, trying to sound irritated. The words came out rougher than he intended, almost petulant. He shot you a look that was supposed to be a glare, but it was weak at best.

You just rolled your eyes and flopped down onto the ratty old couch like you belonged there. Like no time had passed. Like he hadn’t shattered everything between you.

Jason stood there for a long moment, arms folded across his chest, staring at you. He hated that he noticed every detail. Your hair was different, a little shorter maybe, and your clothes looked softer, cozier. You looked fine. Worse than fine, you looked good. Like you had moved on. Like you didn’t need him anymore. He told himself that was a good thing. That this was what he wanted for you. But the thought dug under his skin until it stung.

He hadn’t moved on. He wasn’t sure he ever would.

He dragged in a breath and forced himself to look away. “How did you even get in here? Or know I was here?” He huffed the words like he was annoyed, but there was a thread of something else in his voice that he couldn’t hide. He didn’t know what he would do if you told him you only came out of pity. Or worse, if you didn’t tell him at all and just left.

His hands curled into fists against his arms. He turned toward the kitchen, needing to move or he was going to lose it. He was here because he was a problem. Because the Joker was back and Jason was hanging by a thread. He didn’t trust himself in Gotham, didn’t trust himself near the people he loved. It was easier to disappear. Easier to hide than to watch everything he touched fall apart.

He didn’t look back at you when he opened the cabinets. He didn’t want to see that soft, steady look you always gave him. It made him want things he wasn’t allowed to want anymore.

The silence stretched until it felt like a weight pressing against his back. He thought about telling you to leave. He thought about begging you to stay. He hated how badly he wanted the second one.

Jason grabbed a box of instant noodles and stared at it like it was going to save him. He was a six-foot-five wall of muscle, a man who could break bones with his bare hands, and here he was hiding behind cheap dinner because you still made him feel like he was twenty again, standing outside your window with his heart in his throat.

He cleared his throat and set the box down. “You want food?” His voice was gruff, like the words had to be dragged out of him.

It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. He wasn’t supposed to care.

Because the truth was, Jason missed you like a bad habit. He missed the way you filled the silence without asking him to explain himself. He missed the weight of your head on his shoulder and the way you laughed when he said something stupid. He missed every single thing he told himself he could live without.

He glanced at you over his shoulder, his jaw tight, blue eyes softer than he wanted them to be. He could not stop looking at you, not really. He didn’t think he had ever stopped.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, but it came out quieter this time, almost like he was trying to convince himself.