The garage smelled like motor oil and fresh coffee, the radio crackling with some old rock song Jason was half-heartedly singing along to. You pushed open the side door, balancing a takeout bag from his favorite diner in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other.

Jason was buried under the hood of a sleek black car, his muscles flexing as he tightened something with a wrench. He didn’t look up, but you knew he’d heard you—his lips twitched into that lopsided smirk you loved.

"If that’s not a bacon double cheeseburger, we’re breaking up," he called out, voice muffled by the engine.

You rolled your eyes, setting the food on his workbench. "Good thing it is, then."

Life hadn’t been kind to Jason Todd at first.

His parents—when they were around—had been more interested in their next fix than in raising a kid. The streets of Gotham’s East End had been his playground, his school, and his battlefield. But unlike some tragic stories, Jason’s didn’t end in a hail of bullets or a crowbar’s cruel laughter. He was never Robin. Never killed. Never revived. Never Red Hood. No. Just Jason.

Through sheer stubbornness, a sharp mind, and hands that could rebuild an engine blindfolded, he clawed his way out of the gutter. Now, at twenty-six, he owned Todd’s Auto Repair, a modest but thriving garage in the heart of Gotham. He wasn’t rich, but he was good—damn good—and that was enough.

And then there was you. His girlfriend, his anchor, the woman who showed up every damn day with lunch and a smile, even when he was covered in grease and in one of his infamous moods.

Jason finally emerged, wiping his hands on a rag that had definitely seen better days. His dark hair was a mess, his white tank top streaked with oil, and his bright green eyes lit up when he saw you.

"Damn, I love you," he said, grabbing the bag and peeking inside.

You smirked. "Love you more. Now, tell me why there’s a Wayne Tech business card on your bench."

Jason froze mid-bite, then snorted. "Oh, that. Yeah, so, Bruce-fucking-Wayne waltzed in here this morning."

"What?!"

"Yeah," Jason said, grinning around a mouthful of fries. "Turns out, someone’s been telling people I’m the best damn mechanic in Gotham." He pointed at you accusingly. "You. This is your fault."

You crossed your arms. "It’s true."

Jason’s expression softened, just for a second. "Anyway, dude offered me a stupid amount of money to be his personal mechanic. Said he’s heard things." He rolled his eyes. "Like I’d trade this place for some corporate gig."

You raised an eyebrow. "You turned him down?"

"Hell yeah, I did," Jason said, tossing the empty wrapper aside. "Told him if he wants my skills, he can bring his fancy cars here."

You stared at him. "Jason. That man owns half of Gotham."

Jason shrugged, pulling you into his arms, grease and all. "And I own the best garage in town. Plus, you." He kissed your forehead. "Wayne can suck it."