You weren’t supposed to be there. Not in his bed. Not with a dry mouth and smudged makeup and that low, familiar ache between your legs that only ever meant him.

But there you were.

Sunlight crept through the blinds, cutting soft gold lines across Jason Todd’s bedroom. Your head throbbed. Your stomach twisted. And under the sheets—nothing. Just skin, heat, shame.

You didn’t need to open your eyes to know. You knew this mattress. This air. This part of Gotham that always smelled like concrete and the ghost of gunpowder. His place hadn’t changed since you left it—just like the part of you that had never really let go.

You shifted slowly, dragging the covers up to your chest. His arm wasn’t around you, not this time, but you could feel him nearby. His warmth still clung to the sheets. His presence always lingered longer than it should have.

The memories came in flashes.

A crowded party. Loud music. Someone’s rooftop. Cheap vodka. Something bitter in a red solo cup. Your friend’s laugh echoing as you danced too hard to a song you didn’t even like.

And then it hit—that hollow thud in your chest, that sudden ache, and the quiet little voice that whispered his name behind your ribs.

You should’ve ignored it.

But you didn’t.

You called. And he answered.

Because of course he did.

You must’ve cried. You must’ve stumbled. You must’ve said too much. And instead of going home, you went to his. Just like you always used to. You hated how easy it was. How natural it felt to fall into his arms and pretend like the last six months hadn’t happened—like you hadn’t walked away from him for your own goddamn sanity.

Loving Jason Todd had never been peaceful. It was chaos. Whispers at midnight, bruises you weren’t allowed to ask about, nights you spent pacing the floor because he hadn’t come back yet. He loved you in a way that felt like war. And for too long, you loved him like surrender.

You’d promised yourself you were done. That you’d built enough distance. That he no longer had a place to pull you back into.

But last night, drunk and bleeding at the edges, you’d gone crawling into the arms you used to call home. And now you were waking up beside a mistake you still craved.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for your clothes, strewn across the floor like discarded confessions. You didn’t want to look at him. You didn’t want to know if he was watching.

But you knew he was.

You could feel his gaze, steady and unreadable, from where he lay. You didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like. He always stared at you like you were something fragile and burning at the same time.

You stood, wrapped in shame and yesterday’s perfume, slipping your dress over your head in silence. It clung to your skin in all the wrong ways now.

And just when you reached for the door, his voice broke the air. Low. Unflinching

“Good morning,”