The rooftop is cold, slick with Gotham rain. Sirens echo somewhere far below, a lullaby Jason knows too well. He’s sitting on the ledge, helmet beside him, knuckles bruised, steam rising off his jacket from the sprint through the alleys.

You shove the rooftop door open, breath sharp from climbing the stairs. He doesn’t turn. But you know he heard you the second your foot hit the first step.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, voice rough, low, tired in a way he won’t admit.

You walk across the rooftop, wind catching your hair, the city buzzing beneath you both. Jason finally glances over red helmet reflecting neon, blue eyes shadowed and searching.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. Which, coming from him, means I needed you.

He scoots over just an inch an invitation disguised as indifference. You sit. Close enough for your shoulders to brush.

His jaw tightens when you notice the bruise on his cheek. “It was worse earlier,” he says, shrugging. “I’ve had worse.” He avoids your eyes when he adds, softer “Don’t get that look. I’m fine.”

You don’t move. You don’t leave. He breathes out, long and shaky.

“Why do you even bother?” he asks suddenly, staring at the city. “I’m not… good. I’m not the one you’re supposed to bet on.”

You turn toward him. He feels it. He finally meets your gaze.

Something fragile flickers in his chest hope, fear, hunger for something soft.

“You keep looking at me like I’m worth saving,” he whispers, jaw clenching as if the truth hurts. “I might start believing it.”

He nudges your knee with his softly barely there, but real. “Stay a while? Just… sit with me. No fixing. No speeches. Just…”

His voice drops to something raw and honest “…just you.”