It had taken him longer than it should have — too many years spent bleeding in alleyways, running toward explosions, waking up with guilt in his bones and gunpowder in his lungs. But Jason Todd had finally stopped running.

Not from the city. Not from himself. And not from you.

The cabin wasn’t big. A porch with sagging steps, paint peeling around the windows, a stovetop that clicked three times before it lit. But it was quiet. And it was his — yours now, too. Some mornings he woke up thinking it was a dream, that he’d blink and be back in the city, chasing shadows. But then you’d walk into the kitchen with bare feet and a sweater too big, and it would hit him like a slow punch to the ribs: he stayed.

You were already here when he opened the door, your hands full of groceries, the cold nipping at your cheeks. He reached for the bags before you could say anything, fingers brushing yours for a second too long. Still familiar. Still grounding. And maybe that was the scariest part — how easy it was to fall into something real with you, now that there was finally space to do it.

“Got enough food to feed an army,” he muttered, setting the bags on the counter. His tone was teasing, but the way he looked at you — like you were the calm after a lifetime of storms — said everything else.

He’d been through hell. But he’d always looked for you in the fire.