The safehouse was bathed in the dim glow of a single flickering lamp, the rain outside a relentless rhythm against the glass. The air smelled of gunpowder and cheap whiskey, the remnants of the night’s chaos clinging to both of you like a second skin.

And then there was the music—Die For You humming low from the speakers, the Weeknd’s voice a sultry backdrop to the way Jason’s hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His lips were rough, demanding, tasting of smoke and something darker, something addictive. His tongue slid against yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you, the taste, the way your breath hitched when his fingers tangled in your hair.

You knew this was dangerous.

Jason Todd was always dangerous—a storm wrapped in leather and scars, a man who carried death in his shadow and yet still made you feel alive. Every kiss was a promise, every touch a silent vow—I’d burn the world for you.

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, drawing a gasp from your throat as his hands slid under your shirt, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your spine. The music swelled, the lyrics wrapping around you both like a confession.

"Jason—" you breathed, his name a plea, a prayer.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark with something feral, something yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice rough, wrecked.