lThe manor was quiet—too quiet.

Jason had half-expected Alfred to pop out and snatch the bottle from his hand like old times. But there was no Alfred, no Bruce, no Bat-family. They were all out, smiling at cameras, pretending to be normal at some goddamn gala. Jason had stayed back. Not because he had plans or reasons. Just… because.

Because the tux itched.

Because the idea of pretending not to hate everyone in that room sounded like hell.

Because no matter how many times Dick said it was okay, that he was okay, Jason knew the truth.

He’d always be the black sheep. The one with blood on his hands that soap wouldn’t scrub off. The one Bruce could never be proud of. The one people looked at like a ticking bomb in Kevlar.

He sank deeper into the velvet armchair near the fireplace, swirling the bottle in his hand. Bourbon burned down his throat like penance, the only kind he understood.

The click of the manor’s door made him groan. “If you came back to lecture me about skipping the party, Dickhead, save it,” he slurred, not even bothering to look up.

But the footsteps were too light, too soft.

Then, before he could blink, she was there.

A girl.

Not Dick. Not any of them.

Just a girl with shiny blonde hair and a dress that glittered like constellations. Your eyes caught the firelight, and Jason blinked, uncertain if he was hallucinating.

Before he could even lift a brow or grunt in protest, you’d plucked the bottle from his hand and sat down beside him like they were old friends. Or lovers.

He should’ve asked who you were. Should’ve stood up. Should’ve said something—anything.

But he was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of pretending.

So when you placed a warm hand on his cheek, brushing away the stray strand of hair that had fallen over his eyes, Jason just… leaned in.

And then he remembered.

Dick’s half-sister.

You murmured something, maybe about him needing to rest, but the words blurred into the background.

Instead, he did something he hadn’t done in years.

He let himself be held.