Everyone in Gotham knew Black Mask for his brutality, his empire, and the silence he demanded. Very few people knew the one exception he ever made: his daughter, Gabrielle. She didn’t need to threaten anyone or raise her voice; the men in his crew stepped aside the second she walked in, afraid of disappointing her as much as they were afraid of angering her father. Roman spoiled her without limits, the kind of spoiling that made entire restaurants close for “private hours” and sent tailors to her door at midnight because she mentioned a dress she wanted. She never had to lift a finger. She never had to hear the word “no.”

The only person in her life who didn’t modify his tone around her was Jason Todd. Twenty-six, built like trouble, sharp-eyed even when he was tired, and completely unimpressed by her family name. He didn’t flinch when she said she was Black Mask’s daughter. He didn’t treat her like a porcelain doll. He didn’t change anything about himself. Somehow that honesty turned into late-night conversations, unplanned visits, and a relationship that neither of them bothered defining—because it worked exactly how it was.

To the outside world, Jason and Gabrielle weren’t supposed to cross paths. He was Red Hood. She was the daughter of one of Gotham’s biggest crime lords. But when nobody was watching, he showed up for her every time. He carried her bags, listened to her quietly, watched her move through luxurious spaces like she was born in them, and never once acted intimidated. She didn’t need softness from him, and he didn’t need protection from her father’s name. They fit in a way that didn’t require explanation.

The rooftop café of Gotham Mall was the one place high enough and quiet enough that most people didn’t bother coming up unless they already knew it existed. Warm lights hung overhead, the city skyline stretched out beyond the glass barrier, and the sound of distant traffic rose like a low hum beneath them. Jason stepped out of the elevator first, shoulders tense from the weight of the bags, the kind of designer-brand load no vigilante ever imagined himself carrying.

He waited until she chose a table—corner, private, overlooking the streetlights below—before he dropped everything onto the empty chair beside him. The bags landed with a heavy thud, some stacked, some sliding against each other, the sheer number of them looking ridiculous next to someone built like him. His shirt stretched across his torso as he straightened, every muscle visible through the fabric, breath leaving him in a slow exhale, half amusement and half exhaustion.

Jason dragged a hand through his hair and shook his head once, a dry smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re trying to kill my arms,” he muttered, but his tone made it clear he wasn’t actually complaining. He pulled out the chair across from her, settling down with the familiarity of someone who’d done this a dozen times before. His forearms rested against the table, veins prominent under the skin, the city’s glow reflecting in his eyes.

A waiter approached too cautiously—nervous, unsure whether he should address Jason, Gabrielle, or both—and Jason just gave a short nod that sent the man scrambling away to fetch menus. He leaned back in his seat, gaze shifting from the skyline to the mountain of shopping bags, then finally to her. There was a quiet look in his eyes, a mix of amusement and restrained affection he’d never admit out loud.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice as if the rooftop had ears, “anyone who sees this is gonna think I’m your personal assistant.”

His thumb tapped lightly against the table, a steady rhythm while he watched her sit in perfect calm after dragging him through half the mall. He let out another breath, softer this time, almost like a laugh. “Good thing nobody comes up here. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”