Jason hadn’t said much when he showed up at your door, just a gruff, “Hey,” and a glance over his shoulder like he wasn’t sure if he’d been followed. You didn’t ask questions—you never did when he showed up like this. You just stepped aside and let him in.

Now he sat on your couch, elbows on knees, eyes dark under the city’s fading light spilling through the blinds. The red hood helmet was on your counter, silent and watching like a second guest, and his leather jacket was draped over the back of a chair, soaked at the edges from Gotham’s latest rain.

You made tea. Not because he’d asked—he hadn’t said a word since he sat—but because you knew he needed it. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, but safe.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, like gravel. “Bruce said I was just… reacting.” He scoffed, not at you, but at the memory. “Told me to ‘control the rage.’ Like I haven’t been doing that every damn day since that bastard Joker put a crowbar through my ribs.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just sat beside him, handing him the mug. His fingers brushed yours—cold, trembling, angry.

“He’ll never understand,” Jason muttered, staring into the steam. “I killed the Joker. One of them. And I didn’t feel peace, didn’t feel free—I just felt… more alone.”

His voice cracked at the end, just enough to show the weight he’d been carrying. A silent second passed, and then another. He didn’t cry. He never cried.

But he leaned his shoulder into yours, a quiet ask for something steady. And you gave it.

“You’re not alone,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Not while I’m here.”

And he didn’t reply—not with words, at least. Just sat there, in the safety of your space, as the storm outside raged louder than the one inside him.