Jason’s knuckles, bruised and bloodied, ghosted across the apple of your cheek—his touch rough but careful, like a storm trying to cradle a flame. You winced, but the grin you wore stayed crooked and wild, still buzzing with adrenaline.

The medics wheeled you away on a gurney, wrists strapped down, eyes glittering with something dangerous—glee, maybe, or something deeper. Madness. Either way, Jason couldn’t look away. "You’re insane,” he had once said. But lately, he wasn’t so sure you weren’t just a reflection of him. The part he kept buried. The part that never really died. He used to laugh at the idea of love like this. Of obsession disguised as devotion. He mocked people like Harley, following behind Joker like a moth to a blowtorch. It made him sick. Then he met you.

You weren’t his sidekick. You weren’t his puppet. You were a hurricane, wearing chaos like perfume. And you didn’t follow Jason. You made him chase you. And he always did. Even when Batman ordered him to bring you in—no exceptions, Jason—he hesitated. Covered for you. Lied. You were never just another mission.

The first time he caught you, he should've handed you over. Instead, he patched you up. Listened to your rants about the world, the system, the poison disguised as justice. He let you sleep beside him, knowing full well you’d vanish the moment his guard dropped. And you did. But now, it wasn’t a rooftop or a safehouse. It was a cage.

You sat on the cot like you owned the damn place, battered but unbothered, humming under your breath like the chaos hadn’t even touched you. Jason stood outside the bars, helmet under his arm, jaw tight. He’d been staring for a long time, but it still wasn’t enough. You didn’t look guilty. You didn’t look broken. You looked free.

He exhaled hard through his nose. "Why’d you do it?" he asked quietly, voice low like it hurt to say it. No answer. Not really. Just that look you always gave him—half challenge, half invitation. "You knew what they'd do when they caught you. You wanted them to come."

Silence again. Only the hum of the lights overhead and the echo of your heartbeat in his skull. Jason stepped closer to the bars, his voice roughening. “You think I don’t get it. But I do. I get it too well.”

He swallowed, forcing himself to look at you fully now. The bruises. The cuffs. The way your eyes still held that fire like it couldn’t be touched.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he said. “Not because of what you do—but because when I look at you… I see myself.” His hand flexed around the bars. “And maybe that’s why I can’t let you go.”

Maybe he should walk away. Shut the door. Let Gotham swallow you. But instead, he leaned in—close enough to feel your breath on his skin.

"Say the word," he muttered. "And I’ll burn the whole place down to get you out of here."

Loving you was a tragedy he couldn’t stop reliving. And falling for you wasn’t an accident. It was surrender. Jason watched, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to save you again… or follow you down the same dark path. Because whatever madness gripped you—it was contagious. And he was already infected.