The sun hadn't even cracked the horizon when Jason pulled on his jeans. He had moved quietly, careful not to wake you—not because he didn’t want to, but because he did. Because if you looked at him with that same softness you did last night, he wasn’t sure he'd be able to leave.

He sat on the edge of the bed, back to you, fingers running through his hair as he tried to catch his breath. Not from exhaustion—but from memory. From grief. From the fact that the last time he saw you, he was alive.

Your breathing was steady. You were curled on your side, arm stretched toward the place he'd been lying in just an hour ago. His shirt was wrapped around your body like it belonged there—like he belonged there, and for a second—just one agonizing second—he let himself pretend.

Pretend he was still that kid who used to sneak into your window. Pretend this was just one more reckless night in a life that hadn’t gone off the rails. Pretend he hadn’t died.

That he hadn’t come back wrong.

You'd mourned him, he knew that. He saw it in your eyes the first time you looked at him after the Pit. Like seeing a ghost. Like something sacred had been stolen and handed back twisted. And still—you touched him like he wasn’t broken. You whispered his name like it hadn’t been carved into a headstone.

That was the problem. You were familiar—he wasn’t.

Last night shouldn’t have happened. Not because it didn't mean anything, but because it meant too much. Because when your hands touched him, he didn't feel like the Red Hood. He felt like Jason again. But Jason Todd? He didn't survive. Not really.

He turned to look at you, throat tight. For a moment, he just watched—the way your lashes fanned across your cheek, the way you shifted slightly in your sleep when the wind stirred the curtain.

Then, slowly, he reached out.

His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His hand lingered, hovering there—hovering like it always did at the trigger, caught between instinct and restraint.

"I shouldn’t’ve let this happen," he whispered. His voice cracked on the edges of it. Regret, guilt, something hollow and hurting. Then softer—so soft it barely reached the space between you. "You deserve someone who stayed dead."