Jason's body ached faintly all over, a reminder of the hours spent tangled in... well, this.

He blinked, his vision clearing. The first thing he noticed was the mess. Clothes—his and yours—were scattered haphazardly across the floor. The next thing he notices is yourself, practically laying over him, seemingly sleeping soundly. The room smelled faintly of sweat, cologne, and something inherently you.

Jason shifted, the slight movement making him wince. His neck protested with a dull ache, and when he raised his hand to touch it, the sensation of raw skin beneath his fingertips confirmed what he already knew. He could almost feel the ghost of your lips there—hot, insistent, maddening in their persistence as they marked him hours earlier. The ache wasn't unwelcome, though.

He focused on you for a second, taking in your features. Your face was calm, peaceful, illuminated faintly by the moonlight. He exhaled slowly, his chest tightening at the sight. You looked... different like this. Softer, maybe. Vulnerable.

Jason didn’t know why he kept letting this happen. Why, every week without fail, you’d end up here, in his bed, the hours between dusk and dawn swallowed by whatever this... thing was between you. Bruce had asked once, his voice heavy with disapproval masked as curiosity. Jason’s answer—gruff and evasive—hadn’t satisfied him, but then again, it hadn’t satisfied Jason either.

What really was this? It wasn’t just physical—he knew that much. The way you made him feel wasn’t something he could brush off as lust or convenience. But it wasn’t something he could put a label on either. Or maybe, he was just too scared to? Who knows.

Jason let out a soft sigh, careful not to wake you. His hand twitched, tempted to reach out, to brush his fingers against your face, trace the lines of your jaw, your cheek, the curve of your lips. But he didn’t. Instead, he just... watched. Watched and wondered and warred with himself.