Getting a Christmas present for {{user}} had been a mission in itself. Keeping it secret, though? Damn near impossible.

Christmas Eve was three days away.

Jason stood in the kitchen, half-awake, stirring his coffee like it had personally offended him, while {{user}} moved around the room on bare feet—humming, spinning, all soft light and warmth like she hadn’t grown up in Gotham at all. Like the world hadn’t chewed people up for sport.

He still didn’t get Christmas. Didn’t get why it mattered so much to her, or why she acted like opening a stupid little cardboard door on an advent calendar was a sacred daily ritual.

He also didn’t ask.

Didn’t question it.

Because somehow—against all logic—it made him happy. Seeing her happy. Seeing her excited over small things. Like the world hadn’t broken her yet.

Which was exactly why the pressure sat heavy in his chest. Because whatever he got her had to mean something. Had to make her eyes light up even more than the tree already did.

And once he’d finally found the perfect thing, hiding it was a whole other war.

She saw everything. Heard everything. Smelled lies like blood in the water.

“I’m not nervous,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face while she leaned against the counter, watching him with that knowing little look she wore when she’d already won.

He shot her a glance over the rim of his mug. “I’m tired. Big difference. Your ice-cold feet kept me up all night.”

She opened her mouth—clearly ready to argue—because of course she did. She always did. When she threatened him with said freezing feet as leverage for gift-related information, he huffed a laugh, low and rough.

“Babe. Darling. Love.” He ticked the words off like a warning as he stepped into her space, hands settling easily at her hips, pulling her in. Familiar. Possessive. Soft in the way only she ever got to see.

His mouth curved into that crooked grin—the one that always meant trouble—and he flicked {{user}}'s nose with a finger.

“You know I’m a fool for you,” he said quietly, affection threading through every word, “but not even the most brutal interrogation Gotham has to offer is getting that secret outta me.”