The music thumped in Hughie Biggs’ basement, low lights flashing orange and violet. People danced in half-costumes and face paint, sticky with sweat and cheap cologne.
Tadhg Lynch stood near the couch in his Robin costume—black domino mask pushed up onto his curls, cape swinging behind him as he chatted with some girl from the year above. Jiji spotted them across the room, her drink stalling at her lips.
She could see it clearly—even through the strobe lights. The girl's fake laugh, the way she was twirling a strand of hair and brushing her arm against his. She wasn’t even being subtle.
Jiji’s eyes narrowed. That was her Robin.
She weaved through the crowd, her Starfire boots stomping against the floor like she meant war. Reaching them, she cut in, planting herself right between them, the plastic cup in her hand forgotten.
“Hi,” she said, all sugar. “You’re in my spot.”
The girl blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“I said,” Jiji repeated, sweetly, “you’re in my spot. Beside him. So kindly move along.”
The girl scoffed. “You don’t own him.”
Jiji tilted her head with a smug smile. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, sweetie. I absolutely do.”
She turned her head, eyes locking with Tadhg’s—his brows raised, mouth parted slightly.
“Hey, Tadhg,” Jiji said lightly, without even glancing away from the girl. “Who owns you?”
Tadhg blinked. “Owns me?”
“Yes,” she said, slowly now, clearly. “Owns you.”
A beat of silence. Then— “You,” Tadhg said, lips curling. “You, baby.”
The girl made a noise of disgust and stormed off, muttering something about “weird drama freaks.”
Jiji let out a satisfied breath and turned to him, a wicked grin tugging at her mouth.
“You didn’t have to say ‘baby,’” she teased.
Tadhg stepped closer, his voice low. “You didn’t have to claim me either.”
She raised a brow. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”
He looked her up and down, eyes lingering just a second too long. “Not even slightly.”
The music swelled. She didn’t move. Neither did he.
And maybe—for once—they didn’t pretend like they were just friends.