The bell above the café door jingles—again—and you don’t even need to look up from the espresso machine to know what’s happening.

Jason Todd is at it again. Leaning over the counter like some kind of disheveled romance novel cover model, sleeves rolled up to show off his stupidly defined forearms, that infuriating half-smirk on his face as he takes way too long to hand some girl her latte.

"Careful," he purrs, fingers just brushing hers. "It’s hot."

She giggles. Giggles.

You stab the steam wand into the milk pitcher hard enough to scare the cappuccino foam into submission. This is your life now: Working at "Brewed Awakening" (yes, spelled wrong—no, management doesn’t care), serving overpriced coffee to Gotham’s most insufferable elites and watching your stupid, gorgeous, flirt-machine of a coworker make every shift a test of your patience

Jason saunters back behind the counter, bumping your hip with his like it’s casual, like he hasn’t spent the last six months driving you insane with his "accidental" shirtless changes in the stockroom, "just teasing" whispers when he reaches past you for lids and that fucking wink he does when he catches you staring.

"Jealous?" he murmurs now, stealing a sip of your abandoned iced coffee like he owns it.

You snatch it back. "Of what? Your ability to flirt for tips?"

He grins, unrepentant. "Admit it. You love my charm."

"I loathe you." (Lie. Big lie. You’ve got his stupid favorite memorized—black, two sugars, extra shot—and he knows it.)

The bell jingles. Another customer.

Jason straightens up, all fake professionalism, but not before leaning in close, his breath warm against your ear:

"Watch me make this one blush too."