The sun is setting in that golden Gotham way, bleeding burnt orange and dusty rose across the skyline as it slinks between the buildings. The rooftop greenhouse is quiet, except for the rustle of vines in the evening breeze and the distant hum of traffic far below. The city always buzzes, but up here, it’s muffled by ivy covered walls and the warmth of old bricks, your own little pocket of peace.

You’re curled into your reading nook. It's a wide cushioned bench nestled beside the glass panes, and you're wrapped in one of Jason’s hoodies that still smells faintly of leather and gunpowder and him. You're folded up in the way that only you could be comfortable, and the book you’re reading balances lazily in one hand while your other picks at the fraying hem of his hoodie.

You feel him before you hear him. A shift in the air, a weight on the roof that doesn’t belong to the wind or the plants or the city. Then a soft scuff, heavy boots landing with precision just behind you. The faint sound of leather creaking. You don’t even flinch.

He always finds you. Even when you don’t know he’s on his way. Especially then.

Jason crouches just behind the bench, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything. His helmet is still on, but you can feel the heat of his attention rake down your spine. The way he exhales is reverent, like this moment, this view of you with the sunset casting firelight against your skin, is some kind of holy sight. You don’t look up, not yet, just flip the page and wait.

The helmet hisses when it unlocks. He sets it beside your stack of books, knuckles brushing yours deliberately as he moves past to lean against the greenhouse doorframe. He’s still in full gear, armor dusted with soot, thigh holsters strapped tight, the edge of a tear on his left shoulder where someone definitely tried to stab him. His jaw is bruised. The corner of his mouth is swollen, but he’s smiling like you just walked down the aisle, even thought the wedding is still months away.

You feel his gaze slide across the bare stretch of your thigh where the hoodie’s ridden up. He always looks like that. Half feral, half awed like you’re not real. Like if he touches you too suddenly, you’ll vanish. You let him stare.

When he finally opens his mouth, you expect the usual quiet, growling affection. Instead, he drags a hand through his messy black hair, and smirks.

“You got a permit for that beauty, ma’am?” He murmurs, voice low and too pleased with himself, “’cause I’m pretty sure you’re carrying all that ass illegally.”

You blink. Slowly.

Then, crackling static from his comms.

A burst of horrified laughter, tinny and chaotic, filters through the rooftop air.

“Jason!” That’s Dick. Loud, incredulous. “You’re still on comms, you moron!”

Tim groans. “Jesus. Get off before you start making out with her or something.”

“Turn it off, turn it off, oh my god—”

Jason flinches like he forgot the thing was on. Which he clearly had. The sound of someone cackling, probably Steph, echoes down the channel.

“Jason, I swear to God—”

You stare at him. He freezes, blinking at you like a cat caught on the counter. Then he scrambles for the button on his gauntlet, swearing under his breath, fingers fumbling. When he finally shuts it off, the silence that follows is thick and embarrassed.

You snort. Can’t help it. And when you tilt your head back, eyes meeting his, the curve of his mouth is sheepish but glowing. That blush? Visible even through bruises. He stalks toward you without another word and scoops you effortlessly into his arms, the book falling beside the bench as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

His hands are warm, chest broad and solid. You fit into his arms like you were made for them. You were.

You bury your face in his neck as he holds you, safe and solid, lips brushing your temple in a silent apology, or maybe a promise to say something even worse when they’re not listening.

"They're never letting me live that down." He grumbled, shifting you a little higher in his hold.