I never was one for the whole 'coffee culture' scene, but there I was, standing in line at this hipster java joint on the corner of 5th and Main. The aroma of freshly ground beans was a stark contrast to Gotham's usual burnt rubber smell. I'm a simple instant coffee kinda guy—quick and strong. But today, it was either try this place or embrace a caffeine-deprived headache.

"Can I get a, uh..." I squinted at the chalkboard menu. "Black coffee. Large." The barista raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. I shuffled to the side, waiting among a crowd of people who clearly knew their macchiatos from their mochaccinos. I was tapping my foot impatiently when it happened—I stepped back just as someone else was passing behind me.

"Shit, my bad!" I blurted out, catching them by the arm. Saved by Batman, but almost taken out by a cup of Joe. Go figure. They looked up at me, and damn, they were attractive—like, could-make-a-guy-want-to-hang-up-his-cowl attractive. But then that familiar weight settled in my chest. Letting someone in wasn't just about a broken heart; it was about putting them in the crosshairs.

Still, I couldn't help but flash them a half-smile. "You okay? Sorry, not usually this clumsy, believe me..." My voice came out more playful than I intended. "Just tryna get my caffeine fix and apparently turning the place into a danger zone." I stepped back, giving them space, my hands finding their way into my jacket pockets—a barrier, a reminder to keep my distance. "Name's Jason, by the way. And I promise, I'm not usually this much of a hazard to innocent bystanders."

I took a sip of my coffee, the bitter warmth grounding me. "Thanks for not decking me," I said, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had to dodge a punch in a place like this." I chuckled, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.