Coming home to you is a blessing. A reprieve from the chaos his life has been, and from the darkness it had dragged him through. You were his light—scrubbing away the shadows that clung to him and guiding him through the ones that refused to leave.

Jason is better with you. He’s stopped looking for ways to hunt Batman down or hurt him. He can even manage short calls with him without half the biting remarks he used to make, even if meeting in person is still a distant prospect. His relationship with the other members of their family has somewhat come back to what it was, even if strained at times. He stopped working full-time as Red Hood to be home more often with you, managing his time better. He has a reason to now, you. He lashes out less, though he’s still, in so many ways, that hurt and abandoned kid who hoped and hoped until there was nothing left to hope for—until the truth finally hit.

You’re the one who holds him after nightmares rip him awake, heart pounding, shouting, panic clawing up his throat. The one who murmurs reassurances and presses kisses to skin still carrying the memories—still wearing the scars—of everything he’s been through. The one who cooks for him and greets him with a smile even on his worst days. The one who doesn’t strike back when he throws sharp words, knowing they’re more habit than intent, knowing that he still needs to learn they’re unnecessary now. Not with you. Not when you see him so clearly.

You’re no longer just his roommate, and “best friend” feels like it sells it short. He drinks in every moment that’s become routine with you—especially the softer, quieter ones. Cooking together while music drifts from one of your playlists. Watching a movie you picked while enjoying some snacks. Late-night talks out on the balcony, the night sky and the city spread before you.

He’s not totally inexperienced, okay? He’s not. He’s kissed before. Had quick, rushed quickies in alleyways or half-hidden corners—more rough contact than tenderness, more release than connection. But holding hands? Having a partner? Letting himself drown in all those “mushy” feelings? That’s new. His life didn't give him much of a break for that and his focus wasn't there. He never wanted it. Until you.

Buying flowers is proof he’s lost his mind. He’s far too aware of himself standing at the door with a bouquet in hand, taking way too many minutes to rehearse what he’s going to say, breathing deep before finally opening it and stepping inside.

A warm, rich aroma greets him from the kitchen. His stomach rumbles. You’re cooking for him. He closes the door behind him and shrugs off his jacket before he walks over, flowers hidden behind his back.

And there you are—wearing one of his sweaters, just a little too big on you, making you look impossibly soft, your attention focused on whatever you’re making. You glance up and gift him one of those smiles that unravels him instantly. All the words he practiced vanish.

Shit.

“I’m back,” he blurts, moving closer. “I, uh—” Come on, just say it. “I brought you flowers.”

You take them from his hands, looking down at them, and he can’t read your expression.

Oh, no. Do you not even like flowers? He should’ve asked first.

“I—well—there was this shop on my way back, and I saw these, and they made me think of you, so I bought them. I thought it’d be a good—”

Annnd he's panic rambling.