Jason Todd scrubbed the marinara splatter off his stove with unnecessary force, the muscles in his scarred forearms flexing beneath faded ink. Pathetic, he thought, glaring at the three-hour-old Bolognese simmering on the burner. The scent of fresh basil and aged parmesan filled the safehouse kitchen—far too domestic for a man who kept a .45 in the flour jar.

"We're not even dating," Jason growled to an empty room, his voice muffled by the black domino mask still clinging to his face from last night's patrol. The white streak in his hair caught the afternoon light as he viciously chopped another clove of garlic. Just roommates. Casual. No feelings. That was the deal.

Six months ago.

The arrangement had made sense then. You were both patrolling, splitting rent and utilities was practical, and the casual sex? Well, that was just a bonus. Or so he'd thought. But somewhere between the late-night talks and the way you'd fall asleep on his shoulder after patrol, the rules had started to blur. For him, at least.

He loved the sex, sure, but it was the after that got him. The way you'd laugh at his terrible jokes at 2 a.m., The way you'd ramble about your day, while he traced the scars on your back with a calloused hand. He'd memorized the sound of your laughter, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the things you loved. And now? Now he was standing in his kitchen, making handmade pasta from scratch because you'd mentioned loving tagliatelle al ragù that one time.

Beneath the kitchen's amber glow, the dining table stood meticulously set—Alfred's lace runner (stolen from Wayne manor) framing the single red camellia he'd risked his neck to steal from Robinson Park.

His finger traced the fresh knife scar along his jaw. What kind of idiot nearly gets shivved for vanilla beans?

The kind who'd started noticing how your laughter softened Gotham's edges. Who'd begun leaving the light on when you worked late. Who now terrified because he loved you. And that was the one thing he promised never to do.