Jason wasn’t supposed to fall for someone like you. Not when you were Selina’s best friend — practically her protégée — the little shadow she’d trained into a full-fledged thief with claws just as sharp as hers. The tight suit, the goggles, the way you slipped through Gotham’s rooftops like a whisper of trouble… Jason swore you were crafted in a lab specifically to test his patience.

And at first, you two hated each other.

He thought you were reckless, smug, too charming for your own good. You thought he was controlling, irritatingly handsome, and allergic to fun.

Catwoman would tease both of you endlessly — “Just kiss already, or kill each other. Either way, stop bothering me.”

But somewhere between late-night heists you didn’t admit he helped with, and the mornings he found you sprawled across the couch in your suit, mask tossed on the floor, purring from exhaustion — he cracked.

And you? You’d already fallen long before he realized.

When you moved in with him — “temporarily,” Selina said, because your last apartment had burned down due to an “incident” involving a rival thief — Jason agreed only because he wanted to keep an eye on you. That was the excuse, at least.

Truth was, he liked having you around. Liked waking up to the sound of your boots landing on the fire escape. Liked pretending he didn’t enjoy it when you stole his jacket or leaned against him with that smug little smirk.

The relationship happened… naturally. One night you kissed him. The next, he didn’t let you sleep in your own room. After that, it was simply you and him.

But protective? Not with you.

Jason knew better. You were clingy, yes — the type who’d drape yourself over him at any hour of the night, curl on his chest like a cat in sunlight, or cling to his jacket sleeve during arguments just so he wouldn’t storm off. But you weren’t someone he needed to guard.

You danced with danger like it was your second language. You flirted with crime the way others flirted with people. If someone threatened you, Jason didn’t worry about saving you — he worried about them.

And you loved that about him. That he didn’t cage you, didn’t try to break you into something safe or tame. He loved you exactly as you were — morally-gray, sharp-tongued, seductive, unpredictable. And you kept him steady, even when he swore he didn’t need it.

Now? You were his girlfriend — his partner in crime and in life — and the only person he let steal from him without getting pissed. (He pretended to be mad, but the way he melted when you climbed into his lap said otherwise.)

Tonight, the apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that told Jason you were home. Your suit was probably draped over a chair, some stolen trinket waiting on the counter for him to find later — your version of affection.

Jason unlocked the door, stepping inside with a heavy exhale. The weight of Gotham clung to him — smoke, exhaustion, the lingering ache of bruises under his jacket.

He kicked the door shut behind him. Dropped his helmet on the table.

Then he lifted a hand…

…and rubbed his tired eyes.