When Jason first caught a glimpse of movement behind a particularly dusty bookshelf, he assumed it was someone trying to steal away from the fundraiser Bruce was throwing. He couldn't blame them ─ stuffy room and stuffier attendees, God knew he was trying to do the same.

Then he got curious, because why would anyone spend that much time behind a bookshelf even he hadn't touched? And he was pretty well acquainted with Wayne Manor's library, mind you. Especially for someone that, kindly put, only visited in the most haphazard of manners. He didn't even know what titles were shoved between those gilded maple brackets.

He must have terrified you, the way you jumped when he cleared his throat behind you. His eyes flickered to the faded spine of the book your fingers had been trailing down as he muttered an apology. Bobby Fischer Goes to War. Fuck, chess. He was no expert, but he knew his way around a chessboard. He'd beaten Bruce his fair share and he'd beaten Alfred twice. It was a record, considering no one in the family had tried.

Alongside chess, as it turned out, Jason was a novice when it came to women. Unrated, as far as an ELO ranking goes. So, between about twenty minutes of conversation and a few small laughs from you, he found himself sitting opposite you by a crackling fireplace with a long untouched chessboard beneath the two of you.

He didn't mind. He figured you were just interested in the game and bored of the party. He was interested in you and bored of the party, so he matched two-thirds of your intentions. There was something about the way you carried yourself.

He didn't know you'd played your first simultaneous at the fresh age of nine against a dozen high schoolers and won in less than two hours. He didn't know that you'd beaten a man set on his road to Grandmaster in your first state chess tournament. He probably wouldn't know, either.