The first sign something was wrong was the missing bandages.
Not food. Not money. Not weapons.
Bandages.
You noticed it while digging through the bathroom cabinet at nearly two in the morning, half asleep in oversized pajamas and socks sliding across the hardwood floor. The little plastic box you kept emergency supplies in sat crookedly open.
Three rolls gone.
At first, you blamed yourself.
Until you found blood on the window latch.
Not a lot. Just enough to make your stomach twist.
The police would've called it a break-in.
You called it terrifying.
Especially because whoever got in had locked the window behind them.
For the next week, strange things kept happening.
The back door would already be locked before you remembered doing it.
Heavy footsteps creaked through the house long after midnight.
Once, you woke up to the sound of glass clinking in the kitchen.
By the time you grabbed the baseball bat hidden under your bed and crept downstairs—
Nothing.
Just the fridge door hanging open.
And one of your leftovers missing.
You almost called the cops after that.
Almost.
Until you found the note.
"Lock your windows better."
Written on the back of one of your grocery receipts in sharp black ink.
No signature.
But taped beside it—
A batarang.
You stared at it for a full minute.
“…You have got to be kidding me.”
Because only one person in Gotham used weapons like that and made breaking into houses feel like a personal insult.
Jason Todd.
After that realization, fear turned into frustration.
Because apparently the Red Hood had decided your house was his house now.
You caught glimpses of him sometimes.
A shadow moving across the rooftop outside your bedroom window.
Boot prints on the fire escape.
The low rumble of a motorcycle somewhere down the block before dawn.
But every time you tried to confront him—
Gone.
Like smoke.
Then came the storm.
Rain hammered against the windows while thunder rattled the walls hard enough to shake picture frames crooked.
The power flickered once.
Twice.
Then died completely.
“Fantastic,” you muttered, fumbling for a flashlight.
A loud crash echoed downstairs.
Not thinking, you grabbed the bat again and stormed toward the kitchen.
“Okay, I am DONE with whoever keeps—”
You froze.
A massive figure stood near the counter in the dark.
Helmet off.
Black jacket soaked with rain.
Blood dripping steadily from one gloved hand onto your floor.
Jason looked up slowly from where he’d been trying—and failing—to wrap his side with gauze.
“…You scream,” he warned tiredly, “and I’m leaving blood stains everywhere on purpose.”
You blinked.
“…Are you dying in my kitchen right now?”
“Maybe a little.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Despite the sarcasm, his voice sounded rough. Exhausted.
And when lightning flashed through the windows, you finally saw how bad the injury was.
Your annoyance evaporated.
“…Sit down before you fall down.”
“I’m not falling—”
Jason took one step and immediately slammed his hand against the counter to steady himself.
You stared.
He stared back.
“…Shut up,” he muttered.
That night changed everything.
Because after patching him up, you discovered two things:
One: Jason Todd was unbelievably stubborn when injured.
Two: he already knew your house better than you did.
“The floorboard near the hallway squeaks,” he said while you wrapped his ribs.
“The upstairs window doesn’t lock properly.”
“The neighbor across the street watches too much true crime and definitely thinks you’re suspicious.”
You paused mid-wrap.
“…How long have you been hiding around here?”
Jason avoided eye contact.
“…A while.”
“A WHILE?”
“It was temporary.”
“You stole my food!”
“You can cook, so clearly it wasn’t hurting you.”
“You ate my cheesecake!”
“That was self-defense.”