Jason had a day off.

Didn’t mean he was resting.

He was bone-deep exhausted from last night’s fight—ribs aching where a bruise was spreading ugly and dark beneath his shirt, split lip stinging every time he smirked—but he still carried your purse like it was standard-issue gear.

Plus two dresses. Same cut, different colors. Apparently black was “mysterious” and beige was “soft.” He’d nodded like that made sense.

Three shirts, too. All identical in Jason’s professional opinion. He’d learned not to say that out loud.

Now he stood just outside the dressing room, arms loaded with two overstuffed bags, fabric handles biting into his fingers. The Red Hood could dismantle a weapons ring without breaking a sweat, but this?

This was a different kind of endurance test.

He watched you disappear into yet another rack of clothes, eyes narrowing in dramatic suspicion.

“Babe,” he called, shifting the weight in his arms with a quiet grunt. “You know I love you.”

He flashed that crooked grin—the one that usually meant trouble.

“But even these legendary biceps have limits. I’m running outta arm, sweetheart. If you find one more ‘absolutely essential’ piece, I’m startin’ a drop zone right here in the clearance section.”

He adjusted your purse on his shoulder like it belonged there.

“Or,” he added, voice softer but teasing, “you could reward your very handsome, very injured boyfriend with a coffee before I collapse in a pile of discounted denim.”