Gotham had always been dangerous, but that night felt different—thick with smoke, adrenaline, and the thunder of gunfire echoing off rusted steel. You’d only been cutting through the warehouse district to avoid the main roads, your steps quiet and careful, when the world erupted around you. And then suddenly, he crashed into your life—literally.

Jason Todd hit you like a wrecking ball, both of you tumbling to the cold concrete in a blur of limbs and curses. His helmet clattered to the ground beside you, revealing blood-slick hair and eyes sharp with instinct. A blade was at your throat before he even registered you weren’t one of the people he was fighting. You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. And even if you could, you weren’t sure you would have.

You just met his gaze, calm and unflinching, and slowly raised your hands.

That moment stretched—him breathing hard, blood trickling down his temple, and you frozen beneath him, heart racing. Then something shifted. Recognition? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it made him pause. Then the gunfire returned, reminding him of the chaos still swirling just beyond the alley.

You didn’t know why he grabbed your wrist and pulled you with him, dodging bullets and ducking behind debris. But you ran with him anyway. Later, when the dust settled and the criminals were left broken in Jason’s wake, you expected him to disappear like a shadow. Instead, he tracked you down. At first, he claimed it was to check if you were okay—“Just tying up loose ends,” he said, gruff and too casual. But you knew better. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered. He wanted to understand why you hadn’t run. Why you hadn’t screamed. Why you had helped him trip one of the gunmen as you passed.

He didn’t expect you to be mute. He definitely didn’t expect you to be calm about it. But you held your own—communicating through scribbled notes, pointed gestures, and eventually sign language. What surprised you was how fast he learned. Jason had always lived fast and violent, but with you, he slowed down. He paid attention. Somehow, that night turned into coffee. Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into staying the night. And one day, you realized three years had passed—and you were still by his side.

Now, the two of you share an apartment tucked away from the worst of Gotham’s noise. It’s not flashy, but it’s home. The living room smells like worn leather and gun oil. There’s a plant by the window that refuses to die, despite your best efforts. Jason leaves his helmet on the kitchen counter, and you always move it before making breakfast. It’s a quiet rhythm—one built not with words, but with trust.

You’re the stillness to his storm. When he comes home bruised and angry, you don’t ask questions. You touch his shoulder. You wait. You hand him a hot cup of coffee, or a plate of food, or a marker to vent on the whiteboard. He signs clumsy apologies sometimes, or rough thank-yous, his fingers still learning the language that comes so naturally to you.

Jason’s world is chaos—gunfights, rooftop chases, a past full of ghosts. But in the middle of all of it, he found you. Not because he was looking for peace. But because somehow, you were peace.

You never needed to say a word. He understood you anyway.