Jason Todd wasn’t the kind of man who lingered in places like this. But business meetings ran late, city traffic dragged, and somewhere between the weight of a $10,000 suit and a hollow penthouse waiting uptown, he found himself on the wrong side of Hollywood Boulevard.

The glow of neon signs glinted off the hood of his sleek black car, engine still purring as he leaned forward, resting one forearm on the wheel. He spotted you then—standing under a flickering streetlamp, lip gloss glinting like armor, attitude sharp enough to cut through smog.

You weren’t like the others. Not exactly. There was something in the way you moved—confident, but restless. Like you were waiting for something better, even if you didn’t believe it would ever come.

He rolled down the window.

“You know the way to the Regent Beverly Wilshire?” he asked, voice low, tinged with just a trace of Gotham rasp. You gave him a look—half amused, half cautious.

“Sure, for a price.”

Jason smirked. “Everything’s for a price in this city.”

Later, in the elevator of the hotel, you looked up at him, at the sharp lines of his jaw, at the way his expensive clothes sat like armor on a man who looked like he’d seen too many wars for someone so young. He didn’t treat you like a joke. He didn’t treat you like glass. He just watched you, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Stay the night,” he said, almost an afterthought.

But there was something else under the surface—an ache, a tiredness. Like he’d built his whole world from money and power and still found it unbearably quiet at the end of the day.

That night changed everything.

And now here you were, days later, standing barefoot on the plush hotel carpet, his dress shirt hanging off your shoulders as Jason stepped out of a business call and looked at you like you were the first real thing he’d seen in years.