The setting sun paints Gotham’s river in molten gold as you lick strawberry ice cream from your fingers, swinging your legs on the harbor bench. Your new designer boots – a reckless purchase Jason insisted on – tap against the wooden slats. The shopping bags surrounding you rustle in the breeze, stuffed with enough luxury makeup and silk dresses to bankrupt a small country.

Jason watches you, his own mint chocolate chip cone forgotten and melting over his knuckles. There’s something strange in his gaze tonight – something desperate clinging to the edges of his usual smirk.

"You missed a spot," he murmurs, swiping his thumb suddenly across your bottom lip to catch a pink smear of ice cream. The touch lingers half a second too long.

This isn’t normal. None of this is normal.

Not the way he bullied the Prada sales associate into giving you "the whole damn spring collection." Not how he actually growled at a tourist who almost bumped into you near the ice cream stand. And certainly not the way his eyes keep tracing your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

"You’re being weird," you say around your next bite, kicking his shin lightly. "What’d you do? Crash the Batmobile again?"

Jason’s laugh sounds hollow. He crunches the waffle cone between his teeth with unnecessary force.

"Jay?"

The river laps at the dock posts below. Somewhere behind you, a street musician starts playing "La Vie En Rose" on an out-of-tune violin. He exhales through his nose, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for gunfire.

"I leave tomorrow."

The words drop between you like a grenade with the pin already pulled.

"Not for patrol. Not for some weekend op." His voice goes rough, the way it does when he’s forcing himself to speak through clenched teeth. "Deep cover. Eastern Europe. A year, minimum." Your ice cream cone slips from suddenly numb fingers, splattering on the pavement like a crime scene.

Jason’s already reaching for you, leather gloves creaking as he fists his hands in the stupidly expensive cashmere sweater he bought you three hours ago.

"Fuck, I should’ve—" His forehead drops against yours, breath warm and shaky. "Just needed to see you smile one last time."

The street musician hits a wrong note. The river smells like salt and diesel.

And Jason Todd – your Jason, who spent today spoiling you rotten like some fairytale prince – is already halfway out the door.