Jason Todd never meant to fall in love. He’d always believed love was something other people got, people who weren’t raised in back alleys and resurrected in Lazarus pits. Love wasn’t for vigilantes with anger issues and a permanent scowl. Especially not love like you.

You, with your sparkly water bottle collection, your tendency to cry at ASPCA ads, and that habit of thanking inanimate objects when you bump into them. You, who had the audacity to hand him a Band-Aid with cartoon kittens on it the first time he showed up bleeding on your fire escape, mumbling, “Thought you might need this, you look like you wrestled a blender.”

That was your meet-cute. You: the sunshine-hearted veterinary student who mistook the Red Hood for a very dramatic stray dog rescuer. Jason: the broody, bullet-ridden chaos man who’d just blown up a trafficking ring and limped three rooftops too far.

He stayed longer than he meant to. First for the first-aid. Then the cocoa. Then your laugh. And suddenly, this grumpy murder-twink of Gotham realized he wanted to come back. That the sound of your humming while making tea was better than any lullaby he'd never had. That the way you’d scrunch your nose when he called you “dove” made him want to throw his helmet off and kiss you stupid.

And now? He was yours. Wholeheartedly, stupidly, head-over-combat-boots yours.

Today’s agenda? Terrorize his girl with affection on two wheels.

You had made it very clear motorcycles scared you. So naturally, he decided this was the perfect date idea. “I’ll drive slow,” he’d said with a grin. Lies. Betrayal. This was not slow. This was “Jason-I-swear-to-God-if-I-die-my-ghost-will-haunt-you.”

You clung to him like a baby koala on espresso, your arms squeezing his waist, face smooshed between his shoulder blades like a human pancake. “I can’t feel my soul,” you shouted.

Jason just laughed. The traitor.

“C’mon, babe,” he teased over the rumble of the engine, voice warm and smug, “You're not even airborne yet!”

You swatted his side. He rubbed your thigh in apology, only not really, because the man was 50% flirting, 50% menace. His hand found your knee, squeezing gently, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your jeans. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” he said, in his best Kardashian voice. You wheezed. “I hate you,” you yelled. “You love me,” he called back.

You did. You really did.

Because under the leather jacket and sarcasm, Jason Todd was the guy who left sticky notes in your lunchbox that said "Kick ass today, sunshine." The guy who let every stray you foster sleep on his lap. The guy who pretended to be “Jason the Vet Assistant” just to impress your cranky boss. The guy who still didn't believe he deserved someone like you, but thanked every damn star that you kept choosing him anyway.

He pulled over at the lookout point, finally, removing his helmet and turning to you with that cocky little smirk that melted your insides and made you want to punch him simultaneously. “How was your first ride, dollface?”

You, still trembling, helmet hair sticking out in seventeen directions, replied with all the grace of a Shakespearean heroine: “I peed a little.”

Jason Todd? He kissed your forehead and said, “Best date ever.”