Jason crossed his arms over his broad chest as {{user}} glared up at him, the white lenses of his helmet reflecting the gaudy Valentine's decorations plastered across the Diamond District's storefronts. Real romantic. Nothing said 'true love' quite like discount cupids watching you from behind bulletproof glass.

"No can do, angel," he said, voice modulator doing nothing to hide his smirk. "You're my responsibility today. I don't really care about your social schedule."

The fact that {{user}} probably had some date planned today, with someone other than him? That was beside the point. He didn't want {{user}} to be hurt. This had nothing to do with the way his trigger finger itched when he thought about them spending the day with someone else. Absolutely nothing to do with how he'd spent the morning making sure every flowers-and-chocolate carrying schmuck within a five-block radius suddenly remembered urgent appointments across town under threat of bodily harm.

"Come on, I'll make it worth your while," he said, checking his guns out of habit. Sometimes the most romantic gesture in Gotham was fresh ammunition. Was protection. "If you'd stop pouting and just accepted that I'm keeping an eye on you, we could do something."

Maybe. Something safe, at least. Like hanging out at his apartment, where the only danger was him making an absolute idiot of himself. Or his safehouse, where he could pretend he wasn't pathetically cataloging every one of their smiles. Or hanging out anywhere he didn't have to watch some trust-fund brat try to impress {{user}} with stories about their yacht. The memory of that banker from earlier still made his blood boil. Funny how the guy's Porsche had mysteriously developed four flat tires. Gotham traffic, right? Real unpredictable.