Jason Todd had never been good at softness.

Not in the way people expected, anyway.

He wasn’t the kind of man who wrote love letters or spoke in grand confessions. He was built from grit, from scraped knuckles and survival, from doing instead of saying. So when {{user}} came into his life like something warm and impossible, Jason didn’t know how to hold that kind of gentleness without gripping too tightly.

He didn’t need to work.

Bruce’s money could’ve carried him through a hundred lifetimes, could’ve bought him silence and ease and comfort until the end of the world.

But Jason didn’t want ease.

Not when {{user}} was watching.

He wanted to be something solid. Something earned.

So he woke up early, before the cabin was fully awake, before the forest light turned gold. He pulled on an old shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped outside into the cold air like it was a challenge.

The axe was heavier than it looked.

The wood was stubborn.

Jason liked that.

He swung with practiced force, the sound sharp through the quiet morning. Each strike split the logs clean, the motion repetitive, grounding. His breath came steady. Sweat began to gather at his temple despite the chill.

Behind him, the porch creaked softly.

{{user}} was there.

Not interrupting. Not speaking. Just… existing, like a calm presence draped in silk. Jason didn’t need to look to know. He could feel it—the way {{user}} watched with that quiet, almost amused patience, wrapped in a sweater too big for him, hair catching the breeze.

Jason’s grip tightened.

He swung harder.

It wasn’t about the wood. It was about proving something, even if no one asked him to.

That he could build a life with his hands. That he could be the kind of man who came home tired and honest. That {{user}} would never have to wonder if he was cared for.

Jason felt the gaze like heat on his skin.

He split another log with a grunt, wood cracking clean in two. Chips flew. He drove the axe head into the stump, left it standing there like a declaration, then dragged his forearm across his brow.

“You’re staring again,” he called without turning around.

{{user}}’s smile deepened a fraction. He tilted his head, letting a lock of hair fall across his cheek. Still silent.

Jason snorted, low and fond. “Brat.”

He bent, gathered an armload of split firewood, and started toward the porch. His boots crunched over pine needles. When he reached the steps he paused, looking up at {{user}} through damp lashes.

{{user}} fluttered those lashes once—slow, deliberate—and Jason felt his stomach do the stupid flip it always did.

“Don’t,” Jason muttered, climbing the steps. “Don’t even start with that look. I’m trying to be productive.”