Jason yanked off the red helmet with a low, irritated grunt, his expression melancholic as he watched you wander through his old room at Wayne Manor. There was curiosity in your gaze—maybe even a hint of amusement—as your fingers brushed over the expensive furniture and the faint traces of a life he’d long since outgrown.

Bruce had called him first. He ignored it. Then Dick tried. Tim. Cass. Even Damian—Damian—had gotten involved. That alone should’ve been enough warning. But no, apparently it took the entire Bat-family to drag him back here, all because Bruce couldn’t help being a goddamn helicopter parent who just had to meet his girlfriend.

Two years. Two whole years, and somehow the two of you had managed to keep Bruce from finding out about your relationship.

Before you could comment on anything else in the room, Jason stepped forward, hooked an arm around your waist, and effortlessly slung you over his shoulder. A second later, he dropped you onto the bed—silk sheets, deep red, ridiculously expensive compared to the plain cotton ones back at your shared apartment.

Still in full gear, he followed, collapsing on top of you with another quiet grunt, his weight familiar, grounding.

“This,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your temple, voice thick with dread, “is going to be the worst fucking family dinner ever.”

But the way his hand lingered at your side—and the fact that he hadn’t let go for even a second—said everything his words didn’t.