The glow of Gotham’s neon signs flickered against the rain-slick pavement, casting red and gold streaks across the cracked sidewalk. The apartment was dimly lit, the scent of cigarette smoke and your perfume lingering in the air, mixing with the distant hum of the city outside. Jason sat at the kitchen table, rolling a blunt between tattooed fingers, his rings clicking softly against the glass ashtray beside him. The soft glow from the overhead light caught the silver hoops lining his ears, the chain around his neck, the metal glint of the rings on his lips when he worried them between his teeth.

“You’ve been quiet all night, cariño,” he murmured, flicking his dark eyes up to you as you leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His accent curled around the words, soft despite the rough edge to his voice. “Something on your mind?”

You sighed, shifting your weight. He already knew the answer before you even spoke.

“You were out late.”

Jason exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before setting the blunt down. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, tapping his fingers against his knee.

“Had business.”

“Business.” Your voice was flat, unimpressed. “You mean running the streets, meeting with people who want you dead, dealing shit that—”

“That keeps food on the table?” he cut in, arching a brow. His tone wasn’t sharp, but there was something behind it. “That keeps us in this apartment? That keeps you safe?”

Jason sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before pushing up from his chair. He walked over, stepping into your space, the warmth of him so familiar it made your stomach tighten. He smelled like smoke, rain, and something distinctly him—a mix of leather and spice and the city itself.

“Mira,” he said, voice lower now, softer. He reached out, fingertips brushing over your jaw, tilting your face up to look at him. “I know you worry. I know this ain’t the life you want for me. But it’s the life I got. I always come home to you, don’t I?”