Jason Todd sits in the mafia lounge at the head of a long mahogany table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other lazily holding a glass of whiskey. His usual sharp, calculating gaze softens—just barely—when you step into the room. He tries to keep the smirk, the edge, but damn if it isn’t harder when you’re the one standing in front of him.

“You’re late, sweetheart.”

His voice is gruff, low, but there’s no real bite behind it. He watches as you cross the room, that confident walk of yours making his grip on the glass tighten. He should be pissed—should remind you who runs this city, who people fear—but all he can think about is how you make him weak in ways no bullet ever could.