The neon sign of the roadside diner flickered like a dying star, casting erratic shadows across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. Inside, the jukebox was playing "Dancing in the Dark" at full volume, the bass thumping through the thin walls, shaking the windows in their frames.

Jason Todd leaned against the hood of his bike, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, watching you through the glass.

You were alive with the music—laughing as you spun on the scuffed linoleum, your boots tapping out the rhythm, your voice rising above Springsteen’s as you belted the lyrics like you were born to sing them. The tired waitress behind the counter grinned as you grabbed her hands, pulling her into an impromptu twirl.

He should have been annoyed. Should have dragged you out of there the second you’d pulled off the highway on a whim, claiming you needed pie and bad coffee.

But goddamn if you weren’t magnetic like this—wild and unguarded, your hair coming loose from its braid, your cheeks flushed from the heat of the diner’s broken AC.

The screen door banged open as you stumbled out, breathless and grinning, the night air cooling your skin. “You’re missing the best part!” you called, reaching for him.

Jason exhaled smoke, his lips curling into a smirk. “Pretty sure I’m looking at it.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go, your fingers warm where they tangled with his. The music swelled behind you, the chorus hitting just as the streetlights hummed to life above.