Jason prided himself on knowing how addicts think—how temptation gnawed at the edges of their resolve, how the smallest trigger could send them spiraling. He had spent his childhood in the shadow of his mother’s addiction, learning the cruel patterns of dependency before Bruce took him in. Later, he’d seen those same struggles in Roy and had done his best to help, standing by him through every step toward recovery. He understood addiction. He knew relapses happened.

That didn’t make it any easier when he walked into your shared apartment and saw you like this.

For a moment, Jason just stood there, his heart pounding against his ribs as his brain tried to catch up. He blinked, half-hoping he was seeing things. The air was thick with something he recognized too well—not just the scent of what you’d fallen back into, but the weight of defeat, shame, and exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

His chest tightened. You had worked so damn hard. He had been so damn proud. And now—

Jason’s expression hardened, a mixture of concern, frustration, and fear warring on his face. He stepped toward you with careful, deliberate movements, his voice low but firm.

"Give me that, {{user}}."

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a plea. It was a demand.

Because he knew where this road led, and he refused to let you walk it alone. Not again.