It’s been years since Jason left—since you woke to an empty side of the bed, the scent of him clinging to the sheets, and your engagement ring sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter like a cruel punctuation mark. You’d stared at it for hours that morning, waiting for the sound of his boots on the stairs or the slam of the door. He never came back.

Gotham swallowed him whole, the way it does to anyone foolish enough to think they can outrun it. You told yourself you moved on. You learned how to live without scanning every crowd for him, how to stop imagining the sound of his laugh in strangers’ voices.

And then, tonight, the door to your quiet little bookstore creaks open with the smell of rain, and there he is—leaning in the doorway like the years between you never happened. His leather jacket is damp, his hair longer, and his eyes…they’re darker now, like the city itself got inside him and refused to leave.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just watches you, gaze roaming your face as if he’s cataloging every new line, every faint shadow.

“You look the same,” he says finally, voice low, almost reverent.