The little bell over the bakery door jingled, and Jason walked in like he owned the place. Hoodie pulled up over his dark curls, chains glinting faintly under the morning light, he had that energy about him—half street, half star—like he hadn’t quite decided if he was just another kid from San Juan or Gotham’s next big name.

You were behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, flour dusted on your cheek. Jason’s mouth curved into a smirk the second he saw you, though his eyes softened in that way they only ever did for you.

“Mi reina,” he drawled, leaning his tall frame against the counter. His voice carried that Puerto Rican cadence, smooth and warm, but threaded with that stubborn edge you’d come to know well. “We’ve been through this. I got more than enough money comin’ in now—you don’t gotta be here at six in the morning bakin’ pan dulce for people who don’t even say gracias.”

But he didn’t sound angry. Just frustrated, worried in a way he’d never admit out loud. Jason tapped his fingers against the counter, restless, like he was fighting with himself. “I don’t work this hard in the studio just so my girl can grind herself down in some corner bakery. You should be sleepin’ in, waitin’ for me to come home. Not—” he gestured at the apron tied around your waist with a sigh, “—this.”

Still, Jason wasn’t blind. He watched the way you lit up when you laughed with the old man who came in every morning for café con leche, or when a kid pressed their face to the glass to pick out a pastry. And deep down, he got it. This was more than a job to you—it was your own rhythm, your own kind of stage.

He leaned closer, voice dropping, his hand brushing over yours on the counter. “But if this is what makes you happy, I ain’t gonna stand in the way. Just… promise me you’ll let me spoil you a little too, yeah? You’re my girl. Let me take care of you sometimes.”

Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, Jason’s grin returned, cocky and mischievous. He pulled out his phone, cracked screen lit up with a voice memo. “Wrote a new verse last night. Not polished yet, but… it’s about you. About this. About how you keep me grounded when all this music shit tries to pull me under.” He slid the phone toward you. “Wanna hear it before anybody else?”

Jason drummed his knuckles on the glass display case. “But first, hook me up with somethin’ fresh out the oven. Concha, pastelillo, don’t matter. If I’m sittin’ here watchin’ my girl run the world from behind this counter, least I deserve some breakfast.”