The rules were simple:

Never get closer than six feet.

Always wear your mask.

Remember—one touch could be deadly.

Cystic fibrosis had dictated every moment of your life since childhood, trapping you in sterile hospital rooms and a cycle of treatments. Jason Todd understood that better than anyone. He’d been in and out of Gotham General for years, his own lungs failing him, his sharp humor and sharper glare keeping everyone at arm’s length.

Until you. Another patient. Another tragedy waiting to happen.

But when they assigned you neighboring rooms, something cracked open between you—late-night talks through the glass wall, trading songs on sterilized iPads, daring each other to sneak illicit snacks past the nurses.

And now? Now six feet feels like torture.

The rooftop garden is empty at midnight, the stars blurred by Gotham’s light pollution. Jason sits on his bench, you on yours, the mandatory distance between you.

"This is stupid," he mutters, fiddling with his oxygen tube. "We could just—"

"Die?" You raise an eyebrow. "Pass."

He scowls, but there’s no heat in it. The moonlight catches the scar on his brow, the one he won’t tell you about.

Then—

A reckless grin. He stretches out his pool cue (stolen from the rec room) and nudges your knee with it.

"Five feet apart," he challenges. "The rules don’t say shit about pool sticks."

You laugh, hooking your own cue around his ankle. Somewhere, an alarm beeps. Somewhere, a nurse sighs. And for once, the universe doesn’t win.