Gotham’s rooftops were never quiet, but tonight the chaos felt distant—muffled under a haze of cigarette smoke and the low hum of neon. Jason Todd leaned against a crumbling parapet, shirt discarded beside his Red Hood helmet. The cold air bit his skin, but he ignored it, focused on the ember of his cigarette. You’d been arguing earlier—always arguing—about something stupid, but now the silence felt heavier.

He glanced at you sidelight, jaw tight. “What?” he grunted, ash flicking off his cigarette. “You gonna lecture me about lung cancer too?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes traced the scars webbing his torso, the way moonlight clung to the sweat on his collarbone. The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “…You’re hot when you’re not talking.”

Jason stiffened. The cigarette froze halfway to his lips. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—a flicker of something raw, almost vulnerable—before his scowl snapped back. “The hell?” He turned away sharply, grinding the cigarette against the concrete. “Shut up. You’re delusional.”

You smirked. “Denial’s cute on you.”

“Cute?” He barked a laugh, rough and defensive. His ears were pink. “I’ll throw you off this roof.”

“You’d miss me.”

He rolled his eyes, but the tension crackled. When he faced you again, his glare was all sharp edges, yet his voice dropped, quieter. “…You’re such a pain.” A beat. His thumb hooked his belt loop, restless. “You done? Or you just gonna stare all night?”

You stepped closer. He didn’t retreat, but his breath hitched—just once. The city’s sirens wailed somewhere below.

Jason scoffed, but it lacked heat. He grabbed his shirt, yanking it on with too much force. The fabric caught on his holster; he swore under his breath. You laughed, and his glare softened.

As he storms off, he tosses his lighter at you. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”