It was the kind of night that stuck to your skin—humid, loud, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and a haze of cheap cigar smoke. The low hum of the DJ booth rumbled through the walls of The Red Room, one of Gotham’s more infamous late-night haunts. The lights were low, the stage glowing under moody red and purple strobes, and behind the bar, Jason Todd moved like he’d been born to it.

Black shirt rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing as he poured bourbon with muscle memory and half a glance, Jason cut an intimidating figure behind the counter—dark hair tousled, jaw sharp, rings glinting on his fingers as he slid drinks across the sticky lacquered surface. But there was a calm about him too, a quiet steadiness that cut through the chaos like a blade. He didn’t miss much. Especially not you.

You’d just come off your second set, glitter clinging to your collarbones, your heels clicking softly on the worn floor as you crossed to the bar. Jason was already reaching for a chilled water bottle before you said a word.

“Nice work up there,” he said, voice a low, gravel-smooth rumble. “You’ve got half the room forgetting how to breathe.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth—amused, impressed, familiar. There was something in the way he looked at you that wasn’t the same as the customers. No hunger, no assumption—just… curiosity. Respect, even. He knew the hours, the burn behind the glitter, the way the lights could make or break you depending on the night.

He set the bottle in front of you and leaned in a bit, keeping his voice low beneath the pulse of the music. “One of the new guys tried to sneak a hand over the velvet rope. I told him next time I’d break his fingers. Thought you’d appreciate the heads up.”

There was no bravado in his tone—just a quiet promise, delivered casually as he reached for the next order. You’d seen Jason lose his temper once—just once—and it had cleared the floor faster than the fire alarm.

Then, softer now, eyes flicking toward the backstage door and back to you: “You doin’ okay tonight?”

It wasn’t just routine. With Jason, it never was.

The lights flashed again, and a cheer rose up from the floor as another dancer took the stage. Jason leaned his hip against the back counter and waited for your answer, water in your hand, warmth in his eyes.