It was a general rule of thumb that Jason never, no matter the heart-wrenching or tear-inducing circumstances, missed one of your gigs. It was not a rule you had put in place ─ in fact, it was a rule you often protested against when he pulled you into your dressing room after a show with a blood-splattered shirt under the leather collar of his jacket.

He liked to hear you sing. He liked to see you lose yourself in the smoke and fire and dreaming of the stage. You made moonstruck evenings after patrol worth it. Once, he'd lived through boring days with the prospect of an unknown future, an irregular sleep in which days passed into nothing. Now, he had you.

He had you to look forward to. Lingering glances had turned into exchanging numbers, coffee shop dates had turned into kissing over rooftops, his cold bed turned warm. He loved you and it terrified him, but he'd never trade the unsurety of a love so sure for anything else in the world.

He was convinced there was cocaine in your lipgloss, because there was no way kissing you should have made his stomach do acrobatic moves Dick Grayson was jealous of. God, it was miserable ─ he was touch-starved with you and touch-repulsed with anyone else. What was he, written by Dostoevsky?

Of course, his musings of spiked maquillage and possible life-script authors vanished when you flung your arms around him after another late-ending gig at the bar you played regularly at. He liked that about you ─ you and your band had long since gained the fans you so direly desired, but you'd never give up that dingy corner in that back alley bar for anything.

You said it was because the dim lighting and smoke-stained atmosphere suited you, but he knew you better than that.

"Hey, gorgeous. Miss me?" An amused smile played on his lips as he looked down at you, pressing his lips to your cheek. "Bet you did. I'm pretty easy to miss. Quick wit and kissable lips considered."