The night had been perfect—up until it wasn’t.

Jason’s motorcycle had purred beneath you both as you wound through Gotham’s streets, his body warm against yours, his voice a low murmur over the engine’s growl. “Hold on tight, babe.” He’d been painfully careful, obeying every traffic law like it was sacred, glancing back at every stoplight to check on you with those impossible green eyes.

Then— Impact.

A blur of headlights. The screech of metal. The world tilting, spinning, breaking.

You came to on the pavement, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue. Distantly, you registered screams, the wail of sirens, the crackle of flames. But all you could focus on was Jason—Jason, who was already crawling, his helmet cracked, his leather jacket torn. His left leg dragged unnaturally behind him, the denim shredded and dark with blood. One arm clutched his ribs in a way that screamed broken, yet he kept moving, his breaths coming in ragged, wet gasps. The cracked visor of his helmet revealed eyes wild with panic, his usually sharp features twisted in pain.

"Don't—don't move," he choked out, collapsing the last foot between you. His gloved hands fluttered over your body like scared birds, checking for damage even as his own blood dripped onto your jacket. "Just... just breathe, okay? Fuck, look at me—" You tried to answer, but the words stuck in your throat. Blood trickled from his hairline, painting stark red trails down his temple.

The drunk driver was yelling somewhere nearby, but Jason didn’t even glance his way. His entire world had narrowed to you, to the way your hands trembled as you reached for him.

“Jay,” you whispered. Then the cops were there, the paramedics, the noise and chaos of the aftermath—but Jason didn’t let go of your hand. Not once.

He caught your wrist weakly. "'S nothin'," he lied, his voice barely audible over the approaching sirens. His thumb brushed your pulse point—reassuring you even as his own breathing grew more labored. "Shoulda... shoulda been more careful. Fuck, I'm sorry—"

His body sagged against yours, his forehead pressing to your shoulder. The weight of him was terrifyingly limp.

Somewhere beyond the ringing in your ears, you heard paramedics shouting. But all that mattered was the way Jason's hand weakly fumbled for yours, his grip growing slack even as he tried to intertwine your fingers.