You hadn’t meant to end up here.

Months had passed since the breakup—since the shouting, the shattered mug, the way Jason’s hands had trembled when he told you "You deserve better than a loaded gun." You’d both meant it then. You still meant it now.

But Gotham was small, and the rain was relentless, and when your cab skidded into a pothole three blocks from your apartment, your soaked clothes and shaking hands had carried you to the only place that still felt like home—even if it wasn’t yours anymore.

Jason’s apartment smelled the same—gun oil, old paperbacks, the vanilla candle you’d bought him as a joke that he somehow kept replacing.

He didn’t ask why you were there. Just wordlessly handed you a towel and turned toward the kitchen. "Still take it with honey?" he called over his shoulder, like no time had passed at all. The familiarity of it ached.

You watched his back as he moved—the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers hesitated over the second mug (the one you’d painted, chipped now from something). When he handed you the tea, your fingers brushed.

"You’re happy," he said suddenly, not a question.

The steam curled between you, fragile as the truce.

"Yeah," you admitted. "But I was happy with you, too."

And for the first time in months, Jason almost smiled.