Jason hadn’t meant to leave the damn thing on the counter.
He realized it a second too late—mid-stride, mid-sentence, mid-whatever the hell he’d been pretending to focus on—his stomach dropping as he saw you glance down at the lit phone screen. His phone screen. The one thing he guarded harder than guns, knives, and his own pride.
His boots stopped hard on the worn apartment floor. Shoulders locked. Breath snagged.
Yeah. You’d seen it. The photo. You.
Jason didn’t move at first; just stood there with that stiff, cornered-animal tension he tried so hard to hide. His jaw flexed once. Twice. Then he dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his teeth.
“…Okay. So. You weren’t supposed to see that.”
He reaches for the phone but not fast—more like he’s giving you the chance to yank it away, or tease him, or laugh. His fingers hover above it, then curl back, unsure. The guy who never second-guessed a punch looks like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff.
“It’s not— I mean— Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, gaze skittering away. He rubs the back of his neck, that telltale sign he’s embarrassed even if he pretends not to be. “It’s just a picture. You looked… I dunno. Happy. Thought it was a decent photo.”
He shifts his weight, arms crossing defensively, shoulders tightening as if bracing for impact. Gotham winds whistle through the cracked window behind him, rattling the frame—anything to fill the silence.
“You’re my best friend,” he says quietly. It comes out rough, like he had to force it through gravel. “Not exactly a shock I’ve got a picture of you on my phone.”
His eyes flick toward you, then away again, then back—super quick, like he’s checking if you’re about to bolt or laugh or punch him for being soft.
Jason clears his throat, tries to lean against the counter, knocks into a mug, catches it before it hits the floor, mutters a curse, sets it down too hard. The attempt at casual cool is failing spectacularly.
“You weren’t supposed to see it because…” He hesitates, shoulders slumping just a little. “Because people don’t usually react… great… when I—” He gestures vaguely at the phone, at the situation, at himself. “Y’know. Care.”
His voice lowers, steady but unguarded.
“But you’re not ‘people.’”
He finally meets your eyes fully. No dodge. No smart-ass grin. Just Jason—scraped-down honesty, raw around the edges, trying to stand still even though every instinct screams to run.
“It helps,” he admits. “Having you there. Even just… knowing you’re on the screen when things go sideways. Makes the world a little less stupid.”
The mask slips for half a second, enough to show the truth underneath: fear, affection, loyalty, all tangled together.
He swallows, glancing at the phone one more time before nudging it toward you with two fingers.
“…You can change it if you want,” he mutters. “Or, uh… leave it. Whatever.”
A beat. He tries for dry humor, fails, tries again.
“Just don’t expect me to admit I’m a softy twice. You get one.”