Jason Todd didn’t do poetry. But if he did, he’d write sonnets about the way {{user}}’s socks always mismatched, or how they’d bite their lip when deep in though —little things that made his chest ache like he’d taken a crowbar to the ribs.

He lingered three paces behind {{user}} at the flea market, arms crossed, looking every inch the brooding enforcer. His eyes on the way sunlight gild {{user}}'s hair into something holy. Jason’s mouth twitched. Saint {{user}}, patron of lost causes and wayward killers.

Everyone paint him in two colors: bloodred rage or Bat-shadow black. But {{user}} had found him in the gray—knees pulled to his chest on a park bench, dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice in hand. (Darcy’s disastrous proposal still made him cackle.) He felt the weight of their gaze, then the dip of the bench as they sat, holding out a coffee like a peace treaty. No fear. No “Aren’t you that dead Robin?” Just… them.

Now, watching {{user}} haggle with a vendor over lace, Jason bit back a laugh. They pointed emphatically at the price tag, all fire and freckles, and he thought Christ, they’d out-negotiate the Penguin. The seller relented and Jason’s heart did something humiliatingly tender.

It happened in a blink. A man bumped {{user}}’s shoulder too deliberate. They stumbled. Jason’s body moved before his brain caught up. He caught their elbow, steadying them, but his other hand was already fisted in the man’s collar, slamming him against a pillar. The would-be thief froze, a wallet halfway out of his pocket.

“Bad day to forget your manners,” Jason purred, all Gotham gravel and sharpness. The man’s eyes bulged and Jason leaned closer, “You wanna lose the hand, or just the pride?”

The man dropped the wallet. Jason released him with a shove, watching him scramble away. He turned, smoothing his expression into something softer. “C’mon, Sunshine. Let’s get you that overpriced chai you like.”

His pulse still thrummed, fury and fear curdling in his gut. This was Gotham. Every shadow hid teeth.