The balcony was bathed in the orange glow of Gotham’s neon lights, the city’s perpetual hum a distant soundtrack to your nightly ritual. Jason leaned against the railing, the cherry of his cigarette burning bright between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the cold night air. You watched him from the doorway, arms crossed over your chest, the familiar ache settling in your ribs.

Again. Every night, it was the same.

“Jay,” you said softly, stepping out onto the balcony. The wind tugged at your sleeves, carrying the acrid scent of tobacco straight to your lungs. “Stop smoking, please.”

Jason didn’t turn, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers twitched around the cigarette. “Why are you so worried, babe?” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “It’s just a cigarette.”

Just a cigarette.

As if it hadn’t been just a cigarette that had killed his mother. As if it wasn’t just a cigarette that would one day steal his breath away.