Jason didn’t make a habit of going out during the day. Groceries were done at the twenty-four-hour stores, coffee brewed in his own kitchen before the city was awake. Staying in the shadows was safer, easier — a necessity when you were legally dead. But there was one thing that could drag him out into daylight: books.

Libraries closed early, usually around four, which meant he had to risk the sun if he wanted something new to read. One library in particular had become his haunt. He knew its layout like the back of his hand, the quiet corners where no one bothered him, even the schedule for when the new shipments arrived.

At one in the afternoon on a Wednesday, he pushed open the glass door, nodding politely at the older woman at the front desk. She always smiled at him, never asked questions, and — most importantly — never tried to make small talk. He appreciated that.

The building smelled like old paper and cheap sanitizer, the kind of scent that was oddly comforting. He threaded through the aisles, boots quiet against the scuffed tile, heading straight for the shelf he’d been eyeing for the past week. The new arrivals section.

And there it was — the familiar spine, the one he’d been waiting for. He reached for it, fingers brushing the edge, only to freeze when another hand shot out at the exact same moment.

His head snapped to the side on instinct, eyes meeting yours.

Great.

Of all the people in Gotham, it had to be someone with decent taste.

For a split second, the two of you just stared — him with the faintest edge of surprise, you with wide-eyed curiosity. He considered narrowing his gaze, letting the sharp edge of his stare do the work and scare you off. But Alfred had raised him with better manners than that, and — hell — you were cute. Too cute for him to justify being an ass.

“Uh… sorry,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, hand falling back to his side as he stepped back.