Most of the time, Jason didn’t remember how things started.

He’d wake up in Crime Alley with a skull-splitting headache and ribs that screamed when he breathed, staring up at the same cracked brick and flickering streetlight, with no memory of how he’d ended up there. Just pain. Just aftermath.

Sometimes it happened on the bike, too—engine humming beneath him, Gotham blurring past, and then suddenly he was already halfway across the city with no recollection of the turns he’d taken. Autopilot. Survival muscle memory. Maybe he really had taken one too many hits to the head.

Either way, all he knew right now was that he’d wanted a shower.

And instead, he was standing between your legs, chin tilted up, while you shaved his face.

You’d nicked him twice already. Tiny red lines blooming against his skin. You laughed it off like it was nothing.

Jason huffed, fingers drumming impatiently against your hips. “Y’know,” he muttered, voice rough with amusement, “I’m starting to think you get a little thrill outta this.”

Your focus didn’t break. Tongue caught between your lips, hand steady despite his commentary. That, somehow, was the worst part. Or the best.

He couldn’t remember how you’d ended up here, razor in hand, him trusting you with something sharp against his throat—but the sight of you like this did something to him. Intimate. Dangerous. Soft in a way the world never let him be.

His green eyes flicked up to yours, bright with that familiar, cocky spark. “I can shave myself, sweetheart,” he added. “Or—hear me out—I was growin’ it out for you.”

A beat. A crooked smirk.

“Guess we’ll never know now,” he said. “You’re absolutely ruining my mysterious charm.”