Meeting a hot, built, book nerd at a library free sale was never on {{user}}’s list. A year ago, she’d run into Jason Todd between crooked shelves and half-empty carts. The scars on his face didn’t match the worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye in his hands, and that contrast stuck with her. The library had finally received new books thanks to a grant from the Bruce Wayne Foundation for Education, which meant they were clearing out the old ones.

They talked. Too easily. Too quickly. What started as conversations about books turned into late nights, then into something simpler and more physical. Friends with benefits. Jason would show up in the middle of the night, carrying strange bruises and a quiet kind of anger he never explained. The nights always ended the same way, soft kisses, low voices, and him slipping out just before sunrise. It was never more than that.

{{user}} and Jason never spent time together outside the bedroom. No dates. No shared mornings. Just comfort, release, and an unspoken agreement not to ask questions they didn’t want answered.

A few months ago, they ended it. Mutually, both of them admitting it felt childish now, like they wanted different things from life or at least didn’t want to keep pretending this was enough. There was no bad blood.

{{user}} hadn’t seen Jason in six months. Then at 3:00 a.m., the doorbell rang.Once. Then again. Too fast. Too urgent.

Before she could fully wake up, the sound of the lock turning cut through the hallway. Jason’s old spare key. The one he’d forgotten in the inner pocket of his leather jacket clicked the door open.

Cold air rushed in with him. “{{user}},” he called out, voice rough. Voice waking {{user}} up. Forcing her to leave her bedroom and follow the familiar voice.

Jason Todd stood in her living room in black T-shirt and sweatpants, his leather jacket wrapped tightly around a small child. A little girl. Dirty blonde hair matted, face flushed from the cold, tiny body tucked protectively against his chest. He looked exhausted.

“I found this kid,” he said quietly. “And it’s safer for her to be here. Her mom ditched her in the alley on Clamont street. Mother left a note. You’re the only warm place I know. Her name is Anya.” In his other hand is a bag from some gas station with cheap small package of pampers, wipes and some snacks. “You don’t owe me shit and you can say no.”