The air in Jason’s penthouse was thick with the scent of whiskey and gun oil, the remnants of the night still clinging to both of you. The job had been quick—a shipment intercepted, bodies left cooling on the docks. No capes had shown up to interfere. No loose ends left behind. Clean, efficient, brutal.

Now, back in the quiet of his home, Jason sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, the weight of his empire settling across his shoulders. His suit jacket was tossed over the armrest, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There was blood on his knuckles—some of it his, most of it not.

You knelt in front of him, the dim light casting shadows across his face as you cleaned the split skin along his jaw. He barely reacted, watching you with the same unreadable intensity he always did. His eyes were different now—colder, sharper, carrying the weight of power and the ghosts that came with it.

The city feared him. Rightfully so. Red Hood had been anarchy, a force of vengeance tearing through Gotham’s underworld. But this—this was something else. Control. Authority. Jason wasn’t just waging war on crime anymore. He was the war.

And yet, here, with you, there was no tension. No walls. Just the quiet aftermath of another bloody night.

Your fingers were careful as you tilted his chin, wiping away the last traces of red. His hand came up, catching your wrist, rough fingers pressing against your pulse like he needed to feel you. Ground himself in the fact that, no matter how deep he sank into this life, you were still here.

His voice cut through the silence, rough, deliberate.

“Marry me.”

No hesitation. No explanation.

His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly, his gaze locked on yours. A command. A plea. A promise.