It's late again. The city hums in the distance—low, steady, like a heartbeat muffled under floorboards. You should be asleep, but your mind isn’t kind like that. Jason’s gone. Again.

Your thoughts spiral in the silence of the apartment. Not because he said anything. He never says much about where he’s been, only that he loves you, only that this—you and your child—are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

But your brain doesn’t care about pretty words at 2:00 a.m.

It shows you flashes—of women in red lipstick, of hotel keys dropped in pockets, of laughter that doesn’t belong to you. You hate it. Hate that your mind tries to fill in the blanks he leaves behind. Hate that your wine glass is still half-full on the nightstand, because finishing it would mean crying again. And if you cry again, it means you're losing trust in the man who promised you forever.

And Jason? Jason buys you flowers. Little things. Toys for the kid. A few hundreds folded neatly in your coat pocket. Guilt money, maybe. Guilt for what, though? You ask him, gently at first. Then more direct. He always dodges.

“You know I love you,” he says. “Then why won’t you tell me where you go?” you ask.

He kisses your forehead, arms around you, warm and real. But his eyes carry too much weight. Too much war. You never get a real answer.

It hurts the most when your child asks where Daddy is. You lie. Every time. You hate yourself for it, for that look of confusion on their sweet little face when you say “work” and they ask “what kind of work?”

The door clicks open.

You hear the soft jingle of his keys, then the shuffle of something heavy being hidden in the hall closet—the place neither you nor the kid are supposed to touch. You catch a glimpse before he shuts the door: a flash of crimson, a matte black helmet. Jason Todd isn't cheating on you. He’s hiding that he’s Red Hood.

He’s hiding it for you. For your child. Because he knows what the world would do to the people he loves if anyone ever found out.

But the secrecy is tearing you apart.