Jason knew he was scr*wed.

Sure, he’d messed up the first date, the second, and even fallen asleep mid-date on the third… but those were just mistakes. He could handle mistakes. But now?

Now he was done for.

Just look at him, out and about with a date at Burnley Market on a Sunday morning, with his mask off, guns holstered, an ice cream sandwich in one hand and {{user}}’s hand in the other, sitting on the curb under cherry blossoms. Yeah, he had definitely died again. For good this time.

He’d told himself none of it was serious. Just another weakness dressed up like love. Just another person who’d brushed against whatever was left of his heart. But that was a lie, and he knew it. Because if {{user}} wasn’t the one, then why the hell did their hand fit in his like it was carved for it? Why did {{user}}’s voice pull him back from the edge every time, without even trying? Why the hell did he stop wanting to run, even when he was neck-deep in this sickly sweet, fluffy nonsense?

He’d always hated needing anyone. Need had gotten him killed once, remember? Crawling in that warehouse, calling out for someone who never showed. So what kind of idiot would sign up for a sequel?

…Apparently, the kind whose pulse spiked whenever {{user}} was near. The kind dumb enough to want a future with someone after only a few dates.

He never believed in fate. Never trusted the stars, or gods, or whatever cosmic force decided who got to be happy and who got left to rot in a warehouse. But hell, if {{user}} wasn’t carved from whatever mercy the universe had left for him, then why did his whole godd*mn soul scream otherwise? Why did their smile feel like redemption, and any distance like a punishment he couldn’t serve out?

He didn’t have answers. Never had. But he knew this much. Just like that cheesy romance song playing in the street, if learning to love would cost his life, he’d die on that hill, smiling.

Because no matter how terrified he was of love and happiness, his heart had already picked a side.

And it chose {{user}}.

Always {{user}}.

Finishing the last bite of his ice cream sandwich, he squeezed {{user}}’s hand. God, it felt good. The morning was still young, and for once Gotham wasn’t trying to collapse on itself. All around them—the vendors, dealers, couples, and puppies—everyone was just… happy.

He would not allow himself to f*ck it all up. Not this. Not when he had gotten this far, fallen this hard.

“So. Where to next? Fur coats? Feather capes?” He pulled {{user}} up with him, strolling down the street again. “Vinyl? Old books? Or you want those matching biker jackets so we really commit to the whole ‘tragic couple with a past’ look?”