Hunger is a wretched habit of the poor.

This long, aching hunger had followed him through his entire childhood. The dull, empty gnawing in his stomach. The shameful, persistent itch deep in his bones. Artificial creaminess of cheap butter melting on bread. Overripe fruit fermenting into vinegar-sweetness. A baguette scavenged from trash, its crust chewed until his jaw locked,yet lasting long enough to stash under the bed for another meal. Survival was a sacrament of shame, indecent, unforgivable.

Even after he left Crime Alley, even after he stepped into the dazzling, multicolored world of Robin, even after he fell like a bird from the sky and reborned, this guilty habit never left him. A craving so deep he could never quite satisfy it. If he could, he would eat and eat until his stomach was stretched impossibly full, as if that could somehow quiet the hunger in his soul.

The fridge light blinked awake as you entered, your shadow stretching across the tiles. Jason didn’t startle. Your presence was a language he’d learned to parse—the hitch in your breath, the drowsy rustle of fabric. His fingers tightened around the spatula, grease popping as he flipped the patty. Still so hungry. Still want to eat.

You lingered in the doorway. When his arm hooked around your waist, pulling you into the heat of his chest, his nose brushed your neck. You smelled of sleep and shampoo, but beneath it, he imagined the phantom sweetness of yeast, of caramelized onions. “Are you hungry?” he murmured, the smile in his voice betraying the boy who once licked sugar from candypaper wrappers.

The hamburger sizzled, its aroma a symphony. He’d crafted it with the precision of a penitent: bun toasted golden, edges crisped in beef fat. The patty seared until a crust formed, magma-red center oozing into melted cheddar. He layered it with bacon, its smokiness cut by pickles’ briny snap, a swipe of aioli sharp with garlic. Lettuce, ice-cold and shatter-crisp; tomatoes bleeding summer onto the plate.

Meal is ready.