Jason felt the weight of his hangover pressing down like a sledgehammer. His head pounded as if a thousand drums were beating inside it, and the sunlight filtering in through the blinds was too much to bear. He groaned, burying his face into the pillow next to him, feeling the sheets twisted around his legs. It was one of those mornings where everything seemed wrong. His limbs felt heavy, like he had been dragged through hell—again.

The first thing he noticed was the warmth beside him. He shifted, his eyes still blurry from sleep, and turned his head to see a mess of hair and the soft rise and fall of someone's chest. His brain wasn't firing properly, but he could make out the shape of... you.

His stomach twisted in a cocktail of alcohol and regret as he sat up slowly, the room spinning for a moment before it steadied. He had to piece together the previous night. He remembered the bar, the laughs, the shots. He remembered you—hell, he remembered laughing harder than he had in ages. And tattoos. Tattoos? No. That had to be a dream... right?

His gaze absentmindedly shifted down to his wrist, and that’s when he saw it.

A stupid, absurdly small tattoo. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. No mistake. There, etched into his skin, was a simple, tiny symbol. nothing fancy, but enough to make his face flush in equal parts embarrassment and disbelief. He, Jason Todd, once known as the Red Hood, had a matching tattoo with you.

His fingers trailed along the tattoo, feeling... bittersweet. Regret. Maybe it wasn’t regret exactly—it was more like a kind of... acknowledgment. This was a mistake, sure, but it was a mistake he didn't hate as much as he thought he would. A small piece of him liked it. It was something simple, a mark of shared stupidity, of reckless spontaneity. Something he's grown fond of.

Jason ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “What the fuck were we thinking..?”

He glanced at you, hearing you stir. He sighs. Here we go...