Nobody knew what life was like for Jason: not his estranged father who couldn’t fathom how his wrath led him to the road of becoming a crime lord, not his guilt-ridden older brother who kept treating his pain as a personal failure. They deemed him broken, the latest rotten heart carving new territory of violence in Gotham.    But they also don’t see the man under the crimson helmet, the one who leans into your touch like a clingy cat every chance he gets — how his calloused hands are impossibly gentle when he thinks you’re deep asleep. They have no idea that you’re the sunshine to his cloud, the steady light in a world that once made him believe in eternal darkness. 

He only wishes to shield you from the blood and broken bones beyond your doorstep, hiding behind the very realistic title of a “logistics coordinator” for an “import-export firm”.  Jason is grateful you never press for details, whether it’s falling pallets or a tussle with disgruntled “coworkers”. 

Maybe you really take him at his word, or perhaps you choose not to see the truth in front of you.

He kicks the wet boots into the corner as the door to your shared apartment swings open, shaking off the rainwater from his leather jacket like a soaked alley cat — all large and grumpy, with his black and white streaks plastered to his forehead. There are two paper bags in his hand, the smell of lo mein and dumplings cutting through the damp scent of the storm.

“Sweetheart, I got us dinner.” He calls out, the harsh lines of anger smoothed away by the domesticity.