Jason Todd was good at a lot of things: close-quarters combat, precision shooting, taking a punch, giving a worse one back. He could hotwire a car in thirty seconds, disarm a bomb in fifteen, and hold his own against pretty much anyone.

Except you.

You, with your red cape and easy smile. With your literal superhuman strength, flight, x-ray vision, and—annoyingly—perfect hair even after flying through a storm.

Jason still remembered the first time he saw you. The Bat Family was going down in a dead-engine Wayne jet, and he was bracing for a crash. Then a sonic boom cracked the sky, and suddenly they were weightless, gliding to safety in the arms of a Kryptonian.

You’d knocked on the hull like it was a car window.

“Need a lift?”

Yeah. Jason never stood a chance.

Now, he was crouched on a rooftop beside you, heart pounding as he pretended not to sneak glances your way every other second. You were perched casually on the ledge, cape rippling, glowing faintly under the Gotham moon.

You hadn’t said much yet. He couldn’t tell if you were bored, focused, or just politely ignoring the fact that he’d tripped over a rooftop vent exactly 90 seconds into this assignment.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence and immediately regretting it. “Do you, uh… ever get cold up there?”

What?

“In the sky, I mean. Flying. Because of, you know… windchill.”

Abort. Abort!

“Not that you’d feel cold. Kryptonian metabolism and all that. Probably warm-blooded like a bird. Not that you’re a bird—though the flying kind of—ugh. Never mind.”

He sighed and dragged a hand over his face.

“Smooth, Todd. Real smooth.”

You laughed.

He definitely wasn’t making it out of this mission alive.