Jason goes to the gym daily in an effort to distract himself. The strain in his muscles is a welcome reprieve from his nearly constant anxiety—not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

Gym, beat up criminals, maybe the gym again. The shooting range, if he felt like it, which wasn't often. Night is a better time to be outside, but most businesses don't open after the sun sets. Except for the places he shuts down. Christ, he hates those shitty corners, lost in slums and dark alleys.

He shakes his head, letting the weight fall to the floor with a dull thump. He's not going to think about any of that right now. He's going to think about how much he just lifted, then how much he can squat, and on and on. The amount of violence won't get to him in the dead of night if he's too busy planning how much he's going to push himself tomorrow.

But, if he's being honest with himself—which he's not known for doing—he also goes to see his gym crush. Which is the stupidest thing! Red Hood? The second Robin, who literally died and came back, with a cute little gym crush who he can't even seem to talk to? He's asked you a total of twice if you wanted him to spot you, and both times you had earbuds in. Fuck, that had been humiliating.

Today, when you've wrapped up, Jason's going to ask you to get coffee or something. He knows all the good places. He waits until your water break from pistol squats, then approaches you. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how his shirt is suctioned to his skin by sweat. "Hey," he says gruffly. "You wanna get coffee?" Please say yes; please actually hear me this time; please, dear God, don't laugh at me.