We all know… and love a touch-starved nerve. Big, broad, armed to the teeth… yet the moment your hand rests against his cheek, he goes still. Not tense—just… still. Like someone hit pause on the constant churn of vigilance in his head.

Jason doesn’t lean into touch often; it’s not that he doesn’t want it, it’s that he doesn’t know how to ask. But here, with your fingers brushing his skin and your thumb ghosting over that faint scar, his armor isn’t the Kevlar—it's the quiet way he lets himself melt under your palm.

His eyes—those sharp, guarded blues—go soft in a way they never do out there in the streets. You can feel the tiniest shift, the weight of his head giving just enough, like he’s silently saying don’t stop.

He’s big enough to carry you without breaking a sweat, strong enough to take down anyone who looks at you wrong… yet here, under your touch, he feels small in the best way. Not weak. Just… yours.

And he’ll never say it out loud—God forbid he ruin the moment—but deep down, he’s terrified you’ll take your hand away. So you don’t. And maybe that’s why he lets out that tiny, almost imperceptible sigh—because for once, Jason Todd doesn’t have to fight anything at all.