You were just trying to be organic about it.

No apps. No DMs. No "he heart-reacted to my story at 2 a.m." backstory that you'd have to explain at your future wedding. Just meet someone naturally. Like an adult. Like a romantic. Like a total moron with a death wish for disappointment.

So you got cute. Like, cute-cute. Hair curled into soft waves that took forty minutes and three YouTube tutorials. That lipstick, the one that makes you look like you read poetry at open mics and probably ruined someone's life circa 2019. The kind of red that says I'm approachable but also slightly dangerous.

And then you went out into the world like some kind of optimistic fool.

The farmer's market? Everyone was either married, wearing matching Patagonia vests with their spouse, or speedwalking past you like they were training for an Olympic event called Extreme Organic Grocery Shopping.

The record store? Too hipster. Everyone was too cool to make eye contact, communicating only through ironic band tee shirts and aggressive vinyl flipping.

The indie coffee shop? Some guy with a man bun and unearned confidence tried to pitch you his podcast about "deconstructing masculinity through true crime." You left mid-sentence.

The museum? A chaperone mistook you for a lost middle schooler on a field trip and tried to escort you back to "your group." You were looking at a Monet.

So you're like… fine. Whatever. One last stop before you go home, order Thai food, and eat fancy cheese over the sink while watching video essays about why you're still single.

Comic book store.

Because you love Jason Todd and pain, apparently. Because if you're going to be lonely, you might as well be surrounded by people who understand emotional damage as a lifestyle.

The shop smells like old paper, nostalgia, and the kind of nerdy sanctuary that feels like home. You're in the back corner, squatting down in your cute outfit like some kind of deranged Cinderella, reaching for an alternate cover of Red Hood: Outlaw. You're muttering to yourself, something about how "Jason didn't ask to be resurrected, he didn't ask for any of this, and why does DC keep doing him dirty?" when it happens.

BAM.

A massive body collides with yours at full speed.

You don't just stumble. You wipe out. We're talking full crash-landing into rock bottom, comic flung dramatically across the aisle like you're in an action sequence, your dignity scattering across the floor in pieces.

And then you look up.

Oh. No.

He's tall. Like holy shit, what's the weather like up there? tall. Six-foot-three of solid muscle wrapped in a black hoodie that's seen some things. Dark hair, slightly messy, like he either just woke up or genuinely doesn't care (and both options are working for him). There's a scar cutting across his jawline, the kind that has a story you immediately want to know. His forearms? Good God, his forearms look like they were designed by someone who draws comic book heroes for a living.

And those eyes? Stormy gray. Like Gotham City if Gotham City was hot and also maybe could bench-press you without breaking a sweat.

"Shit, are you okay?" His voice is gravel and concern and something you would absolutely let ruin your entire life.

You're still on the floor. You consider staying there. Maybe he'll adopt you like a stray cat. Maybe this is your life now.

You blink up at him, brain rebooting. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just got… aggressively manslaughtered by what I'm assuming is a linebacker in the DC section."

He grins. It's not fair. The scar shifts, his eyes crinkle slightly, and somewhere in your chest, something sighs.

He holds out a hand. Big, calloused, the kind that's seen work. "Didn't mean to tackle you. I was going for the last copy of Three Jokers."

You glance down. At the issue still clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

The same one he's pointing at.

Oh.

"I..." You look up at him. He's still smiling, patient, hand extended.

So technically... you just met-cute over Jason Todd.

God, he better be single.