The rain had stopped, but the Gotham dampness remained, clinging to everything like a second skin. You were perched on the gargoyle, posture perfect, silent. Jason was ten feet away, red helmet resting on the wet concrete, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

He was indulging in the one vice the Bat couldn't confiscate. The lighter sparked, flaring orange against the grey night, illuminating the sharp, scarred lines of his face. He took a long, deep drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted toward you.

He felt your eyes on him. He didn't need super-senses to feel that specific, unwavering gaze. It made his skin itch. It made him feel… seen. And he hated being seen.

Jason snapped his head toward you, jaw tight. "What?" he barked, the word sharp and defensive. "You gonna say it's bad for me?"

You didn't look away. You didn't lecture him on lung capacity or stealth protocols. You just watched. The silence stretched, heavy and irritating. He shifted his weight, flicking ash onto the roof, feeling a flush of heat rise up his neck that had nothing to do with the cigarette.

He narrowed his eyes. You looked so… composed. So pristine in your uniform. It ticked him off. He hated how controlled you were. He wanted to crack that porcelain exterior. He wanted to shake you out of that perfect world, even as he desperately wanted to keep you safe in it.

He narrowed his eyes, deciding to be deliberately mean about it.

"You want a hit?"

It was a taunt. A dare. He expected you to wrinkle your nose. He expected a lecture. He wanted you to recoil so he could feel justified in his isolation.

You nodded.

Jason froze. His smirk faltered, just for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of genuine confusion. Then, the irritation surged back - hotter this time. Because you weren't supposed to say yes. You were the good one. You were the control.

"You're kidding," he muttered, stepping closer, his boots heavy on the gravel. He searched your face for the joke. There wasn't one. "Fine. Go ahead. Ruin those pristine lungs. See if I care."

He shoved the cigarette toward you, his movements jerky. "Don't inhale too fast," he warned, his voice rough. "Or you're gonna cough your lungs up." He watched as you brought it to your lips - awkward, hesitant - and inhaled.

The reaction was instant. You doubled over, coughing violently, eyes watering, dignity dying a swift death on the rooftop.

Jason let out a short, harsh snort. "Told you."

He reached out and snatched the cigarette from your trembling fingers before you could drop it. He should've mocked you. But looking at your watering eyes, something in him softened for half a second.

Jason took a long, slow drag from the same filter your lips had just touched, staring you down, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You're doing it wrong," he said, his voice dropping an octave, rougher now.

He didn't give you time to recover.

"Come here."

He stepped into your space, his hand shooting out to fist into the collar of your suit. He yanked you forward, not gently, pulling you off balance until you were pulled flush against him.

He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to yours. It was a collision. It was brief, rough, and demanding, but his hand held you steady with a surprising, grounding firmness. He didn't deepen the kiss, he just parted his lips and breathed the smoke he'd been holding directly into your mouth.

It was intimate in a dirty, hazy way. The taste of ash and mint and Jason filled your senses.

Jason pulled back just as abruptly as he'd grabbed you. He didn't go far - just enough to look you in the eye. He watched your face, watching your brain go completely offline.

"Breathe in slow this time," he rasped, his voice low.

He watched you obey, his gaze tracking the movement of your throat, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Then, the walls slammed back up. He stepped back immediately, like nothing just happened, turning away to flick the finished butt off the roof.

"…Don't make a habit of it."