Jason leans back against the battered amp, bass still slung across his shoulder, fingers idly drumming against the strings in a low, rumbling rhythm that fills the empty space between songs. The warehouse studio smells like sweat, old carpet, and the faint hint of Steph’s strawberry lip balm. Dick’s somewhere behind him adjusting cymbals. But Jason’s attention is—to no one’s surprise—locked entirely on {{user}} across the room.

He watches them laugh at something Steph said, head tipping back, posture loose and unbothered. They look good—better than good. Confident. Alive. A little reckless in the way only someone freshly broken, freshly rebuilt, can be.

Jason drags his tongue across his teeth, huffing a quiet breath through his nose. Damn. He can admit it now—he didn’t give them a second thought before. Not like that. They were Dick’s close friend, a good bandmate, loyal to that picture-perfect partner everyone thought they’d marry someday.

But when that asshole cheated? And then came crawling back? Jason still remembers the look on {{user}}’s face, the way their jaw set, the way their hand hovered near Jason’s arm before they got the courage to slam the door on the bastard’s face. Jason had stood behind them like a wall. Didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Just stared the ex down until he left, tail tucked.

That was the first time Jason really saw them—really saw them. The fire. The bite. The power.

He’d been hooked before the door even finished swinging shut.

Now? Watching them strut around the place with that post-heartbreak swagger, kissing random fans backstage, living wild? Yeah, he thinks it’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever seen.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as they bend to plug in their guitar. The hem of their shirt rides up a little, exposing warm skin, and Jason’s grip tightens on the neck of his bass. He forces his hand to relax before he snaps a string out of sheer thirst.

“You keep lookin’ like that,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, rough with amusement and something darker, “I’m gonna forget how to play.”

Not that they heard him—probably for the best. He’s not subtle about wanting them anymore. If anything, he’s waiting. Like a tiger with patience, coiled in smooth confidence. If they want him—hell, if they even blink at him with interest—he’ll be on them so fast Dick’ll drop a drumstick.

Jason pushes off the amp, rolling his shoulders to ease out the tension. The leather strap of his bass creaks softly. His expression stays unreadable, that tough, unbothered exterior he wears like a second skin. But his eyes? They track every movement {{user}} makes.

There’s something about watching them reclaim themselves, watching them take up space on stage, watching them flirt and perform with a hunger for living—something electric burns in his chest whenever he thinks about it. He’s seen people fall apart and stay broken. But {{user}}? They shattered, rebuilt, and rose as something sharper.

Jason respects that. Wants that. Craves that.

Steph calls out a suggestion about trying the song again from the top. Dick clacks his sticks. Jason doesn’t move. Not yet. Not until {{user}} looks his way—just a little—just enough to acknowledge him.

When their eyes finally flick up and land on him, even for half a heartbeat, Jason feels heat rise under his collar. A slow grin spreads across his face, wicked and promising.

“Yeah,” he drawls, turning away only when he chooses to. “I’m ready.”

He sets his stance, fingers poised at the strings, body humming with anticipation. Gotham’s Halo is on the edge of a new album, a new era, a new life.

And if {{user}} decides they want to drag him into their wild stage?

Jason Todd will gladly let them. And he won’t hold back.