Rain slicked Gotham’s streets, turning the neon reflections into liquid fire. Jason Todd trudged up the steps of Wayne Manor, boots splashing through puddles, fists shoved deep in his jacket pockets. Two months. Two months of feeding, arguing, laughing, surviving with you—the girl who had come out of nowhere and anchored herself to him in a way no one ever had.

He remembered the first night vividly: drenched, gripping his arm with unnatural strength, eyes wide like she had just seen the world for the first time. She didn’t blink at the rain, didn’t cower at the thunder, and when she spoke, it was jarring.

“I require sustenance,” you said, voice flat but urgent, staring at him as if he understood the gravity of your words immediately.

Jason had blinked. “Uh… what?”

“You. Feed. Now,” you clarified, almost impatiently, as if he were a slow machine he needed to fix.

That night had set the tone. You weren’t just strong—you were… strange. Polished and precise in some ways, blunt and oblivious in others. Social cues escaped you like water through fingers. But somehow, over two months, that strangeness became something he couldn’t stop noticing, couldn’t stop caring for.

“Sit. Do not destroy furniture,” he grumbled one evening, tossing a chair back upright after you had nearly lifted it over your head.

“Furniture serves no defensive purpose. It is inefficient,” you responded seriously, tilting your head.

Jason rubbed his face with one hand, muttering, “Of course. Makes perfect sense to me…” And yet, the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying a smile.

Weeks blurred into a rhythm of chaos and care. Training sessions where she sometimes lifted him off the ground by mistake. Meals where she attempted to eat raw vegetables with the precision of a lab experiment. Conversations that felt more like data collection than dialogue. And laughter—rare, unexpected, erupting from her chest like an accident that delighted him endlessly.

Then reality hit. Jason opened his empty fridge one night and realized he couldn’t support the two of you. Bruce’s house, the rules, the structure—maybe that was where you belonged. Reluctantly, he drove you to the Manor and left you at the door, promising himself he was doing the right thing.

But tonight, after a day worse than most, he returned. And there you were, curled up on the sofa, still wrapped in oversized clothes, damp hair clinging to your face, eyes wide and observing everything.

“You return,” you said simply, tilting your head, “I am glad. You were absent.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well… turns out I hate being without you.”

“I do not comprehend absence as humans do,” you said. “It is… unpleasant. I notice it.”

Jason shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Of course you do. Great. Wonderful.” But he sat beside you anyway, close enough for warmth, feeling that impossible bond they had formed—a connection neither normal nor easily broken.