The kitchen smells like rising dough and the rosemary candle you lit earlier—warm, earthy, alive. Jason’s chest presses against your back as the radio croons some old blues song, his heartbeat thudding steady through your shoulder blades.

"Move with me," he murmurs into your hair, swaying just enough to make you step on his boots.

He’s terrible at dancing. But you adore him for it.

His hands slide down your arms, flour-dusted and careful, callouses catching on your sleeves. When he reaches for the dough, his fingers overlap yours—pressing, pulling, guiding—until you can’t tell where his touch ends and the pillowy softness begins.

"Like this," he says, voice rough as he shapes your hands around the mound. But his thumbs brush your knuckles three times longer than necessary.

The oven light casts everything in gold. Outside, Gotham rains its usual symphony of sirens and screeching tires.

Here?

Here, Jason Todd kneads pizza dough like it’s something precious, his hips still subtly rocking you both to the music neither of you knows the words to.