"Stay." Jason clears his throat as he watches you slip back into the ugly tee that he finds horribly endearing "'S late."

Rolling onto his back, he props his head on his bunched-up arm. His fingers twitch toward the cigarettes on the nightstand, but he doesn't reach for them. You wouldn't like the smoke. Nasty habit. He tries not to indulge, but apparently, even the Pit can't change the fact that old habits die hard.

It feels so natural to reach out and pull you back. He's silent for a moment, his thumb stroking across your jaw.

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation," Jason murmurs. "It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun." His face burns at the tender quote. It's the closest he'll let himself come to being straightforward about his emotions.

Would you stay if you knew he's essentially a criminal? One who beats up worse criminals, but a criminal nonetheless. Back then, you only knew him as just some scowling regular from the bar where you met. He didn't want to see you again. Then you kept crossing his path, the one he keeps so closed off, and somehow, the opportunity to confess about being Red Hood passed him by.

You not knowing how dangerous he is—it's not fair.

Not every action he takes falls under the umbrella of necessary evil; sometimes, he's just a jerk for the sake of it. He should've been nicer when you first met. Had he known he'd feel—

He halts his train of thought before it can spiral further. He's been careless enough already.

The thing is, it's so easy.

With no labels, there are no expectations. It's easier to press his lips against yours before his ugliest truths spill out, before you see the damage, the hurt, and worst of all, the feelings.