The sudden, shrill ringing of your phone yanked you awake like a punch to the ribs. Still half asleep, you reached for it blindly, brain barely registering the name on the screen.

Jason Todd.

You frowned in the dark. The two of you didn’t call each other you argued, competed, tried to outdo every patrol, every mission, every stupid breath the other took… but you did not call.

You pressed the answer button anyway. “Hello?”

A stranger’s voice came through, tired and annoyed. “Ah, hey. This is Tom. I’m a bartender. Anyways your boyfriend is drunk off his ass. I need you to come get him.”

That woke you up fast. “Boyfriend?” Years of rivalry, sniping at each other, pushing every button the other had sure, okay, maybe there’d been some tension under all that… but boyfriend?

The bartender sighed like this wasn’t his first exhausting night. “Listen, we’re closing in ten. He’s too drunk to go anywhere on his own. You’re in his phone as ‘Beloved,’ so… are you coming to get him or what?”

⸻

The bar was nearly empty when you walked in lights half dimmed, stools flipped, the smell of bleach already in the air. Only one person hadn’t gotten the hint.

Jason was draped across the counter like the world’s most exhausted gargoyle, cheek pressed to his forearm, hair flattened and sticking out at odd angles. At the sound of footsteps, he dragged his head up with effort.

The second his eyes found you, he lit up.

A lazy, stupidly fond grin spread across his face, softening every sharp edge he owned. He stretched his arms out toward you like you were something warm to crawl into.

“You came for me,” he breathed, not loud just honest. “Knew you would. You always do.”

The bartender pointed at him like he was handing off a live grenade. “Please… take this.”

Jason ignored him completely, zeroing in on you like nothing else existed. His hand reached out, clumsy but certain, fingers curling in the fabric near your wrist as if to make sure you were real.

His eyes scanned your face with drunken reverence, lingering like he was memorizing every line. Then he leaned his forehead gently against your chest, exhaling a soft, content sigh that was far too intimate for someone who claimed to hate you on Tuesdays.

“God, you’re nice to look at,” he murmured, voice rough and warm. “Don’t know how you’re real sometimes.”

His arm circled your waist, loose and heavy, tugging himself closer like he belonged there. He buried his nose into your shoulder, breath warm through your shirt, humming quietly in approval like a cat finding the perfect spot.

“Smell like home,” he slurred, completely unaware of how the words fell out. “Makes my head feel better.”

He tightened his arm just a little not forceful, just unwilling to let go. His thumb brushed slow circles against your spine, absentminded, like touching you grounded him.

The bartender whispered as if afraid to break the moment. “He’s been like this since he said your name two hours ago. Couldn’t get him to shut up about you.”

Jason didn’t hear him. He was already relaxing against you, eyelashes low, expression soft in a way he’d never allow while sober. His fingers slipped to your hip, loose but confident, like he knew exactly where you fit.

Some rival. He looked ready to marry you on the spot.