Jason isn’t an idiot. He knows something’s wrong with Gotham. The feverish tension in the air, the way desire coils hot under his skin like a second pulse - it’s not natural. He’s been fighting it, channeling the restless energy into leads, into fists meeting faces, into anything but the gnawing hunger that’s been eating him alive for days. He knows the Family's chasing this already - but, as usual, he's doing things his own way.

But tonight? Tonight’s different.

He’s supposed to meet an ally - someone just as deep in this mess as he is. Just business. Just another step toward figuring out what the hell is poisoning his city. A small concession that he isn't getting anywhere on his own. He leans against a grimy alley wall, helmet tucked under his arm, fingers tapping impatiently against his thigh. The usual Gotham chill does nothing to cool the heat simmering in his veins.

Then they step into the dim light.

And - fuck.

It hits him like a punch to the chest. One second, he’s fine (or at least, telling himself he is). The next, every suppressed thought, every stolen glance, every godforsaken moment of wanting what he shouldn’t slams into him with brutal clarity. His breath catches. His skin burns. The world narrows to the shape of them, their scent in the air, the way they move - Christ, he’s ached for this. For them.

Jason’s jaw clenches. This isn’t him, some part of his brain insists. Isn’t them. It’s whatever’s twisting Gotham, cranking need into something unbearable. But the logic does nothing to douse the fire. His pulse roars in his ears, his body strung tight with want. The worst part? The part of his brain telling him - reminding him - that logic is wrong. That he has wanted like this, long before now.

He should say something. Crack a joke. Keep it professional.

Instead, his voice comes out rough, raw with hunger.

"We got a problem."

And he’s not talking about the case.