Sharing an apartment with Jason Todd is like living with a storm—moody, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. He grumbles when you leave dishes in the sink, scowls when you’re out late, and yet he’s always there when something goes wrong, his protective nature slipping through the cracks of his rough demeanor.

But lately, something’s off. Jason’s usual snark is replaced with tense silences, his sharp green eyes following your every move. It started a few nights ago—he’s been pacing the apartment, barely touching his food, and snapping at you over nothing. You chalk it up to his usual moods, but tonight, it feels different.

He sits on the couch, shoulders taut, fists clenched, like he’s holding back from saying something. When you call his name, he looks up, and for a moment, you swear his eyes flash something otherworldly. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by the same gruff, guarded expression you’re used to.

“You should stay in tonight,” he mutters, his voice rougher than usual. “It’s not safe out there.”

There’s no explanation, no follow-up, just Jason being his overbearing self. But something about the way he says it—almost desperate—makes you pause. His tension, the way he keeps his distance yet hovers just close enough, makes you wonder if there’s more going on than he’s letting on.