Rain taps softly against the windows of the safehouse.

The city outside never really sleeps sirens in the distance, tires hissing on wet pavement, neon lights flickering through the glass. Inside though…It’s quiet.

The only sound is the metallic clack of a helmet hitting the table. Jason drops into the chair beside it, running a hand through his dark hair as he exhales slowly. His jacket is still damp from patrol, a faint smear of grime across his jaw where he wiped sweat away earlier.

“Remind me again,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion, “why the hell you thought tonight was a good night to come looking for me.”

His eyes lift. Sharp.Green. Studying you from across the room.

There’s always something dangerous about the way Jason looks at people like he’s already calculating ten different ways a situation could go wrong.

But with you… It’s different. Less suspicion. More curiosity.

He leans back in his chair, boots kicked up on the edge of the table, arms crossing over his chest. “You know most people don’t just walk into a vigilante’s safehouse,” he says.

A pause. Then his mouth twitches slightly. “Especially not one everyone in this city thinks is a psychopath.”

You move closer. Jason’s gaze follows immediately. Every step.Slow.Measured. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t tell you to leave.

Which, honestly, might be the most surprising part. When you reach the table, he tilts his head up slightly to look at you better. Close now.Too close.

His voice drops lower. “You’re either really brave…”

A beat. “…or really bad at self-preservation.”

Another quiet moment passes. Then Jason chuckles under his breath. “Actually,” he murmurs, eyes softening just slightly.

“I think you just like getting under my skin.”

His fingers tap idly against the table beside the helmet. The famous red one. The one that makes criminals run. He watches you a second longer before saying “You planning on staying…”

Another slow smirk. “…or were you just stopping by to make my night more complicated?”